Annie by the Water
by DreamingByDay
Summary: An arrogant, broken man too afraid to trust in anything, love least of all. A poor, neglected girl, written off by her District as crazy. The story of how Annie Cresta became Finnick's strength & how Finnick Odair became Annie's sanity...despite the odds.
1. Alarms and Tributes

Annie by the Water

_Sweat in the neighbors/Locking the windows/Crow on the stop sign/Leaves when the wind blows_

_And Annie can see me/Well from her corner/Still she will meet me/Down by the water_

_Sometimes I give her/For all that I wanted/Gold and the finest/Lint from my pocket_

_Annie stopped wearing/The apron I bought her/Annie stopped reaching/For reasons I want her_

_~Iron and Wine_

A shrill, incessant ringing (that I later identify as my alarm clock, a hideous shell-shaped thing picked out by my stylist) abruptly jars me from my sleep, the noise unnecessarily loud in my fuzzy, alcohol-saturated head, the hour ridiculously early to my bleary eyes, eyes so unaccustomed to squinting in the bright light of dawn. Naked (no surprise there), I stumble over to the (unnecessarily large) mirror and push a hand through my hair, mussing it just enough that it looks deliberate rather than lazy, and smirk at my reflection. Fortunately, I look good no matter what time of day it is.

Speaking of which…I manage to force my eyes to focus on the dancing neon numbers on my clock. 6:30 am. 6_:30 am?_ Why the hell am I even conscious at this ungodly hour? I mean, sure, on the rare occasions that I go back to District Four, I wake up before the sun to get on the small, elegant fishing boat I bought with my Victor's winnings and sail as far away from shore as I dare before the Peacekeepers and fishermen head onto the water, but I haven't been home in months, and when I'm here in the Capitol…well, I can't remember ever waking up before noon in the Capitol, unless a particularly exciting turn in the Games demanded my attention. So why in all of Panem did someone – most likely Lydia Frill, the over-attentive District escort who also fancies herself my self-appointed publicist – set my alarm for six-thirty in the morning?

The Games. The 70th annual Hunger Games. Of course.

The unpleasant thought, pushed down into my subconscious by last night's excessive (even for Finnick Odair's standards) partying, hits me in the stomach like one of the Capitol's high-speed tribute trains, and I fight the sudden urge to vomit. My entire body tenses, instinctively on edge even though I know there's no way I'll be going into the arena this time. Not as an almost-twenty-year-old no longer eligible for the Reaping, not as a previous Victor with all the fame, fortune, and security I once thought I wanted…no, I am safe, or as safe as anyone can be under the ever-watchful eye of President Snow. But someone - no, two someones - from District Four will leave my District behind today, most likely forever, as they head into the arena, their existences shattered the instant they hear their names trilled from Lydia's too-plump lips.

Two children from District Four are on the train right now, heading here, to the Capitol…heading, most likely, to their deaths. Statistically speaking, the odds are not in their favor. District 1 and 2 usually win, and even though I won my Games five years ago, all I've managed to do as a mentor so far is send eight kids back to Four in body bags. It is little consolation that most of the tributes from Four are Careers who eagerly volunteer for the Games, little consolation at all when I know firsthand the chances (the odds, Lydia and her Capitol friends would say) of either of this year's tributes coming back. And even if you do return, you're not the same person you were before you went into the arena. You can't be. You can't forget it…what you've seen, what you've done, what you've become. And even if you wanted to, even if by some miracle you could, they won't let you. I'm a living testament to that.

I half-fall, half-trip over to the unnecessarily large dresser (unnecessary being a defining characteristic of the Capitol, especially when "fashion" is involved), pull on a pair of pants – skintight, the only way my stylist lets me wear them – and down a few glasses of ice water and an assortment of colorful pills that should energize me, or at least help with the raging hangover I'm nursing at the moment. I dig through the drawer for a shirt, shove my arms into the sleeves, push my feet into a pair of shoes, and then I'm out the door, buttoning a few buttons over my bare chest as I hurry through the training center to the conference room where I will meet Mags and our newest victims – er, tributes, completely ignoring the whistles and come-hither looks that follow in my wake.

And then I'm there, and so is the entourage that I never seem quite able to shake, and I'm greeting the cameramen and the paparazzi (somewhat disturbed that I know all of them by name) and dodging the spit-slicked fingers of my newest Capitol-appointed stylist, Grommett, as he lunges at my messy hair, and then I catch sight of Mags' wrinkled face and Lydia Frill's abnormally smooth, pink-tinted one, trotting along behind an enormous hulk of a male tribute too terrifying to really be called a boy, no matter how old - or young - he may be.

"Finnick, darling," Lydia croons, her eyes flitting to my chest, then dropping lower and widening noticeably. Really, lady? I know I'm bigger than whatever you've had to satisfy yourself with all these years, but come on. What happened to professionalism? "Finnick, meet Curtis McInnes."

Curtis takes my proffered hand, nearly crushing it in his own, and grins broadly at me. "The infamous Finnick Odair," he says, his hands twitching as though already anxious for a fight. "Tell me you're gonna be my mentor."

"Later. First we talk strategy," Mags declares, her words barely distinguishable as they emerge from her gummy mouth. I translate for Curtis' benefit.

"Strategy?" he scowls. "I've got all the strategy I need already – bash their heads in."

"Awesome!" cries one of the cameramen, clearly inspired by Curtis's raw brutality. I can't help but feel some amount of relief upon meeting him – he possesses the viciousness to win sponsors, plus the strength and appetite for violence that will help him do well in the arena, and besides, he is obviously a Career, so he willingly chose to participate in these so-called Games, meaning he has either a taste for killing or a powerful death wish. Judging by what little I've seen of him already, I'd go with the former.

Mags has taught me not to get too attached to tributes, and I've managed to stay distant by involving myself in...ahem, other pastimes...during the Games, but I still can't help feeling responsible for the lives of the two children old Mags and I mentor every year. It's a little better when a Career dies, easier to accept, at least – after all, they know exactly what they are getting into, and yet they still volunteer, year after year after blood-soaked year. But the ones who don't volunteer, the little ones, the timid ones, the ones who are trembling and screaming when they are reaped, who are carted out here like cattle being led to their own slaughter…

No. Best not to think about that. I've got a show to put on. Tributes to train. Sponsors to secure. People to please.


	2. Flowers in the Fog

Curtis is entertaining the cameras, flexing his muscles and baring his teeth in a twisted imitation of some wild animal, and I realize that he is not much younger than me. He was probably only a class or two below me in school. I vaguely remember him intimidating everyone else on the field during physical education (well, everyone besides me, but once you've won the Hunger Games, it takes more than a couple hundred pounds of muscle to intimidate you).

Lydia is making eyes at me again, and I'd rather not deal with her advances right now, so I turn to Mags, feigning interest I don't possess. All I really want to do right now is climb back into bed, take some really good drugs, and sleep for the next month, or however long it takes for this year's atrocities to be over. But instead I say, "Where's the female tribute, Mags? I want to meet both of them."

There is a small noise from behind Mags, and Lydia turns around, her voice decidedly less alluring when not directed at me. "You heard him, girl. Get out here."

Mags moves aside, and a small girl steps forward. No, not small. Tiny.

She has long, dark brown hair that tumbles almost to her waist, huge, eerily familiar eyes – green, like the eyes of most people in District Four, but so bright they seem almost blue – that widen as she looks around the training center, unusually pale skin, and a faint spattering of freckles across her nose. "I'm Annie," she tells me in a low, soft murmur, barely more than a whisper. She does not meet my gaze, but keeps her eyes glued to the floor as she drops into a strangely formal curtsy, holding out the sides of her worn grey dress like a bird stretching its wings. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Odair." Something about her reminds me of someone I didn't quite used to know, but I can't place it.

The cameramen seem entertained by her behavior, and Curtis doesn't bother to suppress his laughter. The girl's cheeks flush, and she whirls on the older Career, eyes ablaze with fury. "I'm just being polite. I'd say you should try it, but I'm sure you don't even know how to spell the word."

"Don't matter, here. At least I know the definition of 'dead meat' when I see it standing next to me in a butt-ugly dress."

"Now, now, Curtis," Lydia reprimands before the two can take their spat any further. Her tone suggests that she too is rather amused by the boy's taunts. "At least they teach some manners in those horrid Homes."

And then I realize why this girl seems so familiar to me.

"Cra-Cresta?" I blurt out, catching myself just in time. "Anna-Marie Cresta? From the Community Home?"

She nods, once, shortly, eyes tightening, her previous respectful expression gone. "I know what they call me, Mr. Odair. So go ahead and say it…and have the guts to say it to my face."

I splutter, caught off-guard. I'm sorry, did this little twig of a girl just insult my courage?

"Call you what, dear?" asks Mags kindly.

"Crazy Cresta," inserts Curtis with undisguised glee. Clearly he has it out for this girl. "It's what everyone calls her, back home."

"I'm sure that's not," Mags coughs, then continues, "not what Finnick was going to say." Her wise, aged eyes narrow at me in disapproval. I look away, inexplicably ashamed.

"Curtis," I instruct, changing the subject, "you go get changed for dinner. You too, Anna-Marie. We can talk strategy then."

"Yes, sir!" Curtis snaps off a mock salute as Lydia leads the pair down the hall to their rooms. The girl does not meet my gaze as she trails behind, dragging her fingers over the paint on the walls, her hair flowing out behind her like seaweed tendrils drifting in the ocean current.

As soon as the two are gone, Mags turns to me, and I swear, the look on her eighty-year-old face is enough to strike fear into the fiercest Victor. "You know them?"

I shake my head. "Not really. They went to my old school, though. Go to my old school. Whatever. Curtis is a Career, I'm sure you figured that out. I don't know much about him other than that."

"And Annie Cresta?" Mags presses.

I shrug, unsure why the old memories of her gaunt, hollow face haunting the streets of District Four make my stomach churn. "She lives in the Community Home. At least, she did. I don't know what happened to her parents, but her older brother was in my grade. He was an idiot, real full of himself. I don't think she lives with him. She…she sells flowers."

"What?" I don't know if it was the words themselves or my unusually hesitant tone that makes Mags continue to question me.

I shake my head, not sure what to tell her. Not sure what there is to tell. But the memory of an unimportant conversation on a day I thought I'd forgotten hits me full force and sucks me under…

_It was a few years ago, before I had to spend quite so much time in the Capitol, and I was walking down the beach to the Victors' Pier, where I was going to have dinner with Mags. It was Mother's Day, and since Mags had no children of her own, and I, thanks to President Snow and his well-orchestrated "boating accident," suddenly found myself with no mother, we had planned to spend the evening together. It had begun to rain, so very few people were out, but I had a fancy new umbrella given to me by some Capitol girl, so I didn't mind the inclement weather. _

_Fog rolled in from the ocean, and before long, I was walking through a sea of mist, unable to make out the shape of my hand even when I put it right in front of my face. I was almost on top of her before I heard her speak._

"_Flowers, flowers, flowers for your mother," she called out into the fog, her voice hoarse and faint._

_I stopped walking, and she came into view – a small, frail-looking child wearing a shirt three sizes too big for her and a torn, frilly skirt not at all suited to the current weather. She was barefoot, and alone, and water dripped from her long hair. She fought back a shiver as she looked at me, her eyes dull and absent of any curiosity. It was not the look of a hungry person desperate to survive; it was the hopeless look of a girl who had become accustomed to starvation and cruelty and the turned backs of neighbors. _

"_Flowers," she said again, shaking some of the rather pathetic-looking blossoms in her basket. "Flowers for your –" And then she stopped speaking, because obviously she recognized me, and everyone in the District knew that Finnick Odair, Victor of the 65th Hunger Games, no longer had a mother._

"_How much?" I asked, more to distract me than anything else._

"_Twenty-five cents for one."_

_I reached into my pocket, pulling out a crumpled five-dollar bill and holding it out to her. "Okay. I'll take six." Mags would just love a bouquet, and it would brighten up her cozy little kitchen in this dreary rainstorm._

"_What kinds?"_

_I glanced at the basket, only recognizing one flower out of the assortment. And even though they didn't reek the way the ones in President Snow's lapel did, there was still no way I was giving _those_ to Mags._

"_Any of them. Just not the roses."_

"_Yes, sir." She chose six brightly-colored flowers, the least droopy of the bunch, and handed them to me, then began digging around in her skirts for change._

"_It's alright. You keep it."_

"_But-"_

"_It's fine. Just…keep it." I spun on my heel and left, quicker than I intended, because I could not stand to see the look of amazement on her face as she clutched the bill to her heart. It wasn't the first time I felt guilty for having so much while others in my own District literally begged for scraps on the corners, but it was by far the worst._

_A moment later, I felt a small hand tap me on the back, and I turned around to find the girl standing behind me, her basket on the ground. She was tapping one foot nervously and chewing on her lower lip, and in her hands, she held a large bouquet containing the rest of her flowers, save the roses, which were still wilting in the basket. "Th-these are f-for you," she stammered, holding out the flowers to me._

"_What?" Not a good response, I know. But I was a sixteen-year-old boy, and a little kid was giving me flowers in the middle of a rainstorm on Mother's Day. It was just…odd._

"_For you. For seeing me. And not…not…" She made a strange gesture, bringing her hand swiftly across her face and turning her cheek, which didn't make any sense. Then she looked out at the ocean, usually so calm, now raging like thunder. "It's like you," she said. "The ocean."_

_I had no clue what to say to that, so I took the flowers and breathed them in. They really did smell quite fragrant, even if their petals weren't in the best condition. When I looked up again, the girl had disappeared into the mist._

I start, realizing that Mags has just asked me something.

"What?"

"Has…girl…Annie ever trained?"

How the hell am I supposed to know? What do I look like, a walking dictionary of District Four tributes? "I doubt it. Did you see the size of her? Besides…well, Mags, Curtis was telling the truth. Everyone _does _call her Crazy Cresta." I think back to how she acted on the beach, swinging her hand around and comparing me to the sea. "She's…not quite right. Not at all."

Mags' eyes darken. She always chooses the underdogs. I always bet on the Careers. Usually, neither of our tributes wins anyways, so it doesn't really matter, in the end. "Nothing wrong with that little girl that some gentleness and a lot of love couldn't fix."

"Then she's certainly come to the right place," I scoff.

Mags' frown only deepens, and she pats me on the shoulder weakly. "Your mask…take off sometimes, Finnick," she tells me, her raspy tone sad. "Getting to be stuck on your face permanently."

I glare at her and walk away, heading for my own room. In the hall, I am intercepted by Lydia and an eager group of Capitol women who seem to like me just fine the way I am. Their senseless chatter and Lydia's high-pitched fawning help to drown out the turmoil in my mind, the part of me that wants to rage against the senseless, utterly inevitable death of tiny Anna-Marie Cresta, the unstable little flower girl with no parents back home to mourn the loss of her rain-soaked blossoms.


	3. Whirlpool

When we reassemble for dinner, Lydia sits herself uncomfortably close to me, Mags across from my chair. Curtis, who has apparently discovered the hair supplies in the bathroom cabinets, judging by the inordinate amount of product his hair is slicked back with, is busy demonstrating different throat-slitting techniques on his cut of steak as he cheerfully talks about bloodletting and slashed windpipes in much the same tone as the village gossips in Four discuss cheating husbands and impending marriages.

"So," he says finally, when Anna-Marie finally, quietly, joins the group, still dressed in the same grey, threadbare gown she was wearing before. I notice that the girl does not touch her food, though she gazes at it with a look of longing more pure and singular of purpose than any look my lovers have sent my way. "Mentors. Me and Finnick, right? And Crazy over here with Mags?"

I begin to nod, because it just makes sense. I'm the stronger mentor, if we're judging by physical strength alone, and that's all Curtis is interested in. Mags' style is softer, more cunning, less violent, reassuring…she'd probably be better company for the girl. Besides, we both know that at best, we can only save one of them. And I don't think either of us has to ask who it's going to be this year. Curtis is Victor material through and through, while Anna-Marie barely has a chance of making it to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.

Mags smacks me on the arm, making me drop my fork. It clatters onto the china plate, and Lydia glares at all of us, clearly unimpressed with our savage District behavior. Mags says something, then repeats it, louder, between mouthfuls of salad. I stare at her, and ask her to repeat it one more time. Because there is no way I heard her right.

Except, as it turns out, I did.

She wants to mentor the boy. Leaving me with the tiny, unhinged creature who at this very moment is expending an excessive amount of concentration on stirring peanut butter into hot tea with the handle of a knife.

"Why?" Curtis and I say it at the same time.

"Balance." Mags makes a gesture with her hands, imitating scales. "You," she points to Curtis, "too much fighting. Finnick also. Me…not so much. You learn traps, hiding, thinking. And she…" here she motions to Anna-Marie, "she learns to fight."

I have to admit, it makes sense. Play to each other's strengths, augment each other's weaknesses, make sure our tributes are as well-balanced as possible when they head into the arena. Why hasn't she suggested this before? Why haven't I thought of it?

I nod, then turn to the girl. "Well, you heard the woman. You ready to become a warrior?"

Curtis scoffs, not bothering to hide his contempt for Anna-Marie. "Good luck, Finnick. You're sure gonna need it." He tosses a piece of candy up into the air, catching it in his mouth and chewing on it, speaking with his mouth full. If there is an afterlife, my mother is looking down on the manners at this table and cringing. "I doubt I'll learn anything from Granny here, and you're gonna have a hell of a time just getting her to act remotely human. But hey, at least you're guaranteed to only have to work for the first five minutes of the Games this year."

Anna-Marie's pale face goes even paler, and her eyebrows knit together, though I am not sure if she is angry or confused. Mags cuffs Curtis, hard, over the side of the head. "Enough, boy," she orders, her voice no longer the gently befuddled tone I am used to. "Name is Mags. You call me that. Now."

"Yes, Mags," Curtis agrees, resigned, probably well aware that now that Mags is his mentor, getting on her good side is the best way to gain access to the sponsors who give the gifts that so frequently make the difference between life and death in the arena.

"Good luck to you, too, Curtis," Anna-Marie says suddenly, apparently still stuck back where the conversation started a few minutes ago.

Curtis narrows his eyes, as though he suspects a trick. "What? Why? I don't need luck. Not when I've got these." He flexes his enormous biceps. "I don't need luck," he repeats, as though trying to reassure himself.

"Don't you?" The girl's voice is low and haunting, insinuating that she knows something the rest of us don't. Her hollow, prophetic tone sends shivers down my spine.

Curtis glares at her, pointedly looks away, and cuts a big chunk of steak, popping it into his mouth with a sigh. "Mmmm," he mutters. "Delicious. But not as good as that girl from District Eight is gonna taste."

Anna-Marie's mouth twists, but she holds her ground, and a grudging part of me has to admire the girl. "You do that, it's a guaranteed death."

"Like yours?" Curtis shoots back. "You just better hope the arena's not a giant whirlpool, Crazy Cresta. 'Cuz if it is, you're shit outta all that luck you've been wishing everyone."

Anna-Marie's hands shake, and she drops the knife onto the carpet as she leaps up from the table and dashes away without a word.

I stare after her. Mags looks accusingly at Curtis, who shrugs with a feigned innocence that no one believes for a second. Lydia Frill pretends to be engrossed in the pile of steamed spinach on her plate.

I stand up, remembering that it is my job to mentor this girl. "Finnick-" Mags begins, and I don't wait for her to say any more, probably because I know she'll tell me to leave the poor child alone. I am already out of my seat and headed down the hall when she finishes whatever it was she wanted to tell me.

I knock on Anna-Marie's door, over and over, but she does not open it. I could pick the lock, a handy trick I learned from Beetee over in District 3, but I don't want to intrude on her privacy even more than the Capitol already has today. The ever-curious part of me also wants to ask her why Curtis's comment about whirlpools made her so upset, but what little common sense I still have left kicks in, warning me not to. I listen at the door for the tell-tale sounds of crying, but hear nothing, so I turn away, kicking at the wooden door a couple of times for good measure. "You're food's getting cold!" I shout as I leave.

There is, predictably, no response.

The next time I see the Cresta girl, we are all gathered for breakfast the following morning. She stays apart from the others, about as far as she can possibly get from Curtis without sitting on the windowsill, her eyes rimmed with dark, sleepless shadows. She pokes at her scrambled eggs with a fork, eyeing the steaming pile of food with an unusual amount of nervousness.

"It's not gonna run clucking off your plate, you know," I remark, unable to resist the chance to tease her. Her cheeks light up in a fiery blush, but as she ducks her head, I see that she is almost smiling. Almost.

I eagerly dig into the mounds of bacon, sausage, stew, and rolls that one of the ever-present Avoxes heaps onto my plate, ravenous from the night's exertions – Melanie Fairbanks, head of President Snow's security team and a regular client of mine, followed by a pair of giddy, purple-skinned twins with a rich father who purchased my services as a birthday present for his girls.

"Long night, son?" mumbles Mags, her near-toothless mouth full of mushed oats. I nod as I devour my food.

"Finnick!" Lydia's scolding voice screeches, and I look up in surprise. She usually never speaks to me like that. "Can you _please_ control your tribute? She's eating like a wild animal – I think I'm going to be sick."

I follow Lydia's glare. Anna-Marie, apparently having overcome her suspicions of the eggs, is inhaling everything on her plate, a hunk of ham in one hand and a fistful of eggs in the other, paying no regard to trivialities like silverware and napkins.

She must feel everyone's eyes on her, because suddenly she looks up, her face flushing. Lydia begins to shriek at her about "proper dining etiquette," but I intercept, standing up and motioning the girl to follow me.

"Thanks, Lydia. I'll take it from here." I wink at her, and the escort settles back into her seat, somewhat mollified – until Anna-Marie wipes her soiled hands on the tablecloth, that is.

I lead the small, silent girl out of the dining area, down the hall, and into a little room that holds one of the training center's indoor gardens. The vaulted ceiling is high, giving the area the illusion of spaciousness. Climbing vines sway gently in the artificial breeze, the sweet scent of flowers fills the air, and a large fountain trickles down into a pond in the middle of the complex. Anna-Marie's face lights up at the sight, and she dashes over to the water, dipping her fingers in it over and over, sending droplets flying everywhere as she draws instantly-vanishing patterns in the rippling surface.

I watch as she dashes around the pond, the skirts of the same grey dress she has been wearing since the Reaping flying out around her calves. Either she wasn't able to figure out how to work the controls for the dresser in her room, or she is strangely attached to the hideous dress. I wonder how she'll react when she learns that she has to take it off to be styled for the chariot ride later today.

She closes her eyes, tilting her head up as though letting the nonexistent sun fall on it, and then sways slowly back and forth in rhythm with the falling water. I'm not sure what it is about the sight that holds me, and eventually I decide that I'm simply not accustomed to anyone in the Capitol showing such joy over something as small and unimpressive as a fountain. The girl is undeniably simple. Which makes her undeniably weak.

"Anna-Marie."

She doesn't answer.

"Anna-Marie Cresta." I wish my tone was softer, but I'm not sure how to make my voice gentle without adopting the ridiculously seductive purr I usually use in the Capitol.

She turns, flinching, apparently having forgotten I was here with her. I sit on the side of the fountain and pat the stones, motioning for her to sit beside me. My mouth turns up in an approximation of a smile, although I think that after so many years of smirking winningly and pouting sexily, I've forgotten what a real smile feels like.

"It's Annie," she says at last, keeping a more than safe distance between us, as though she is afraid I might bite. I realize then why she is not wearing the clothes provided for her in the wardrobe – she distrusts anything created by the Capitol, myself included. Perhaps she's not as simple as she seems.

"What?" I ask her.

"My name. It's…just Annie, if you please, Mr. Odair."

"Alright, Annie. And you can call me Finnick, you know."

"Yes, Mr. Finnick. Thank you, sir." Her response is unenthusiastic and automatic, like it has been drilled into her. I almost correct her, then take in her stance – head down, body hunched in on itself, shoulders stiff as though she is expecting a blow – and decide not to. I cannot for the life of me fathom why she is acting like this. Am I, with my bronze hair and tanned skin and polished Capitol fake-smile, so utterly and completely repulsive to her?

I decide abruptly that I don't want the answer to that question. Instead, I return to the reason I brought the girl here in the first place – Lydia's outburst over her table manners.

"Look, Annie, I know it doesn't make much sense, but you've got to…you can't…well, even if it's hard for you, while you're here in the Capitol, you have to try to act like them, look like them, do what they want. _Be_ what they want."

"Like you?" I'm pretty sure I'm not imagining the accusation in her tone.

"Like me," I confirm, nodding. "If you want sponsors in the Games, you need the Capitol people to like you. And they like glamour, style, strength, sophistication. Elegance." I scoff. "And etiquette. So you can't…uh…eat with your fingers. They don't do that here."

She mutters something, so low I don't catch it.

"What?"

"I…I didn't mean to. I told myself last night, Annie, don't eat anything, you'll look like a little barbarian if you do. But I was so hungry this morning, and I said, Annie, just eat a tiny, tiny bit, so you don't embarrass yourself in front of all these fancy people. But then they just kept bringing in more dishes, and it all smelled so wonderful, and…oh, Mr. Finnick, have you ever seen so much food in your life? So many eggs, and a whole slice of ham, all to myself…it's like a dream!"

She looks up at me expectantly, her turquoise-green eyes alight, and I feel a strange twisting in my gut, as though a knife is being wrenched through it. Here she is, this tiny, underfed, orphaned thing from the poorest part of District Four, sent here to die for the Capitol's amusement…and she's praising their food.

"You grew up in the Community Home, didn't you?" I ask her.

She nods, once, her face hardening. "Is it that obvious?"

"So, your parents…?" I take one look at her expression and decide not to finish that line of questioning. "But you have a brother, right?"

She shrugs. "Sure. If by brother you mean the guy my mom gave birth to."

"That's the usual definition."

She doesn't say anything, just sits silently next to me, fiddling with the destroyed hem of her dress.

"Look, Annie…I know you're not a Career like Curtis. But that doesn't mean –"

She holds up both hands, telling me to stop. "No. Don't. Just…don't."

"But-"

"But nothing. Don't. Don't sit here and pretend I have a chance, when we both know that isn't true. Don't pretend you and Mags are going to waste any gifts on me, when you have Curtis lining up sponsors with one flex of his arm. And don't you _dare_ pretend you care in the least about what happens to me, when you never could be bothered to before. Just…just let me enjoy the last few days of my life in what little peace I can find for myself, Mr. Finnick."

She walks past me, out of the garden, her words ringing in my ears. _When you never could be bothered to before._ I guess I don't need to ask if she remembers the five dollars I gave her, the flowers I bought from her. But why should she? What is five dollars, really, when you're starving to death? One loaf of bread, a couple of fish? I hate the foreign churning in my stomach, the shame over the memory of my measly attempt at charity.

And then an image springs unbidden to my mind – Annie, a skinny pre-adolescent girl in that same ragged grey dress, her hair pulled out of its usual tidy ponytail and a nasty bruise swelling across her cheek, on her knees in a mud puddle outside the school, someone's unrelenting hands on her back, pushing her in face-first. Me walking by with my ever-present gang of followers, friends, and hangers-on, laughing with the others at her dirty face and ugly clothes, turning away and pretending not to recognize the little flower girl from the beach when her desperate eyes sought mine, silently pleading for help.


	4. Scar Tissue

**Authors Note: Thank you very much to everyone who has favorited this story and/or sent in a review...I really appreciate it. FYI, I am not an author who demands a certain number of reviews before I post another chapter - I write because I enjoy it, and I hope that those who read what I write do, too. **

**This story really has 2 purposes for me: one is just to pay tribute to the wonderful characters of Finnick and Annie and the love that grows between them despite the fact that they are both broken and haunted, and the other is to work on writing characters who are complex, flawed, and believable. I know that at times Finnick may seem like sort of a jerk, but I'm trying to give him a very realistic character arc and demonstrate how lost he was before he met Annie. Most people lose themselves at some point or another during life, and I figured that going through 3 very traumatic life changes at once (winning the Hunger Games, being forced into prostitution, and the general angst of being a teenager) would be enough to send him into a downward spiral where he sort of embraces the sex-god identity the Capitol has given him and forgets that he is anything more.**

**Enough with the ranting...I hope you all enjoy the next chapter.  
**

I am down at the bar on the bottom floor of the training center, catching up with some of the other mentors and watching Haymitch Abernathy get progressively drunker and drunker, when Medina, who had been my stylist during my Hunger Games, finds me, a worried look on his birdlike, surgically-altered face.

"Please don't tell me someone needs me," I groan as he comes up to me, moving cautiously through the circle of buzzed victors.

"Doesn't everyone need you, Odair?" smirks Johanna Mason. "Oh, wait, that's only in your pathetic, lonely dreams." Johanna and I have a somewhat strained relationship – we have been what my Capitol patrons call 'friends with benefits' – well, minus the friends part – on and off since we met during her Victory Tour, and though she claims to despise me, I keep getting the sense lately that she wants us to be something more. Which I could never possibly be, even if I did feel anything towards her besides kinship and sympathy. Which I don't.

Granted, she is undeniably good-looking, but so are the majority of the people in the Capitol, what with their fad diets and breast augmentations and crazy eye-widening surgeries. But I've never been in love, never even been in _like_…and I never will be. Not only can I not afford it, considering my…er, profession, but I honestly don't believe in it. It's just a fantasy, a nice fairy-tale that helps people get through their miserable existences. The only reason whatever it is Johanna and I have works at all is because we are both capable of separating the physical act of sex from emotion. My heart, or soul, or whatever it is you are supposed to love with, never yearns for her presence when she's not with me, and her bitter sarcasm only serves to compliment the coldness inside of me.

"Finnick," Medina begins, cautiously edging away from Haymitch, who has decided to hug everyone near him. "It's the girl."

I groan, ignoring Johanna's curious look. Hasn't Anna-Marie Cresta caused enough trouble tonight? "What now?"

"Well…it was when the prep team was waxing her. Her skin…" He trails off, eyeing the now-silent mentors nervously, as though afraid that whatever he tells me could give their tributes an advantage in the Games. Or maybe he's just (rather understandably) anxious about being the only one in the vicinity who hasn't killed at least one other human being. "It's hideous, Finnick. A complete disaster. If we had more time, we could try to graft new skin over it, or go for a complete skin replacement, but as it is –"

I stand up, slamming my half-empty beer bottle on the counter. "I doubt it's that bad. Probably just a bit raw. Sunburned, or something. She is from the fishing district, you know."

"Yes, Finnick. But so were you."

I motion the flustered stylist to lead the way, somewhat bothered by his use of the past tense, his automatic inclusion of me with him and his Capitol cohorts.

I remain silent for the duration of the elevator ride to the fourth floor, letting Medina ramble about trends and fashion faux pas while I stare at the flashing buttons and long with all my might to be anywhere but here. It's bad enough being forced to mentor, year upon year upon year. Who decided I suddenly had to serve as a fashion consultant on top of it all?

The large clock leaning against the wall chimes as we step into the hall, and I glance at it in surprise. Is it really that late already?

"This better not take too long," I tell Medina. "I've got places to be."

"Another hot date, huh?" He grins at me as we enter the room.

"Something like that. Though _hot_ doesn't quite cover it when it comes to Finnick Odair." I am careful to keep my smirking mask on, my eyes expressionless.

Annie, who is perched awkwardly on a glass table in the center of the room, dressed only in a flimsy silk robe, narrows her eyes – though I can't tell whether it's due to my comment or simply my presence. Her hair is down, and the skin of her face is pink, most likely from the scrubs and peels I am all too familiar with.

"Oh, Finnick, thank goodness!" trills Travia, a platinum blonde woman on Annie's prep team who I remember from my own Games. It's hard to forget a chest that gets bigger and more bouncy right before the Hunger Games each year, like clockwork. By this point, her beach ball-sized breasts are so large and buoyant I'm amazed she's able to stand up straight. "It's a nightmare, an absolute nightmare!"

"Travia, calm down! Can't you see the poor child's upset?" interjects another prep, a young, dark-skinned, elegantly-dressed man I don't recognize. "It's not awful at all, little Annie," he says to the girl, his soft, kind voice so out of place in this high-pressure world of skin-color changes, clashing fabrics, curling irons, and enough makeup to drown yourself in.

"No, it really is," Annie's last prep, Galvin, chips in. He is a middle-aged man with slicked-back dark blue hair and earrings the size of soda cans weighting down his sagging earlobes. "I haven't seen such a horrendous body since that awful close-up of the boy last year who lost his arms and legs to those man-eating squids in-"

"In the same Games you're trying to get me all pretty for?" Annie's voice is dangerously low as she glares up at her prep team. "Though I don't see why having smooth skin and hairless legs matters, really. It's not like you give fish makeovers before you catch them in nets and spear them."

The room is so silent you can hear the spluttering breathing of Travia and the faint jiggling of the watermelons on her chest. Medina and the preps stare at Annie in shock; Annie, for her part, has completely checked out, and is gazing out the window with vacant eyes, looking at something none of us can see, muttering about birdless skies and sleeping with open eyes.

"Enough," I say, my tone decisive. "Leave us alone for a minute – I'll take care of this."

They actually listen to me. Because I am, after all, the great Finnick Odair.

As soon as they are gone, I glance around the room, hoping against hope that no one has bothered to bug a place that will only be filled with the inane chatter of the prep team. "What did I tell you this morning?" I hiss at Annie. "You can't say things like that." She covers her ears with the palms of her hands, and I halfway expect her to stick out her tongue like a pouting child.

"You think it's so wonderful," she accuses me, and I look at her, confused. "You do. They've made your cage so pretty, full of gold and jewels and beautiful girls." I stare at her, completely taken aback. "So pretty you've forgotten what it really is…forgotten that you're trapped here…forgotten how much it hurt when they cut your wings and told you not to fly."

God, I hope there aren't cameras in here.

I shake my head and bring a finger to my lips. I lean down to her, so close I can feel the heat of her clean skin, and whisper, "No, Annie. You never forget. But if you want to survive, you better pretend to." Then I stand up again, smirking at her, like we could have been talking about anything. "Now, let me see this 'dreadful skin' of yours."

I mimic the affected accent of the Capitol, rolling my eyes so she knows I'm joking, but she flinches and scoots away from me. Mutely, she shakes her head, hiding her hands inside the long sleeves of her robe.

"Cresta, don't play games."

"No, Mr. Finnick, please…"

"Anna-Marie-"

"No!"

I lunge at her, leaping on top of the table and pulling on her robe, and she lashes out with a quick foot, and then we are grappling and scratching and tugging at each other, and I'm pressing her into the tabletop and trying not to notice the way her little body is writhing against mine and feeling the sting of her hands slapping me and her nails clawing at my face and thinking that maybe she has some fight in her after all, when I suddenly manage to get hold of her robe's collar and yank the garment down.

Her hands immediately fly up to cover the bra her stylists put her in, but I don't even notice what color it is, because all over her body are violent purple bruises and nasty red welts, raw, ugly marks lacing up and down her chest, her abdomen, her arms, her thighs, her neck…

"What-? How-? Who did this to you?" I manage at last, horror-stricken. She looks like she's been whipped by a Peacekeeper, or beaten half to death. Recently. Multiple times.

It is then that I realize that Annie is barely breathing, gasping for air and clutching at her right hand, which I vaguely remember pinning down during our struggle. Shame floods me as I watch blood trickle through the fingers clutching at her wrist. Damn. I didn't mean to hurt her. I never meant to hurt her. I…I am a lousy excuse for a mentor.

"Breathe, Annie," I tell her. "Breathe." She refuses to so much as look at me.

"Annie," I try again, a few minutes later, when we have both caught our breath. "What happened?"

"I live in the Community Home." It is the only reply she gives me before pulling the robe tight around her again, sliding painfully off the table, and dashing into the bathroom, where she locks the door and refuses to come out.

The dark man from the prep team rushes in soon as I come out, knocking on the bathroom door and calling to Annie in his strangely gentle tones. Medina and the other two, clearly reluctant to deal with Annie at all, linger outside, discussing the "dreadful problem" in voices loud enough for Annie and the rest of the Capitol to hear, all frantic about the scars on Annie's skin. Not worrying at all about what caused the bruises, but about how to best conceal them for an audience that wants no knowledge of the miseries of district life.

"She's sure a pain, isn't she?" Medina asks me, taking in the scratches on my face.

"I don't think she's sane. It's like she doesn't understand that we're only trying to help her. To make her pretty…well, prettier, at least," adds Travia.

Galvin scoffs. "Like anyone could do that."

"Stop it. _Now_." I look up, surprised to see the black-skinned prep standing in the doorway. His gold eyeliner gleams dangerously as he glares at all of us. "Annie's a beautiful girl. And I don't want to hear anything more to the contrary."

Galvin and Travia both open their mouths, either in disbelief or to ask the meaning of 'contrary,' then shut them again, like fish pulled out of the water.

Medina, however, just rolls his eyes. "Shut it, Art School. No one wants another lecture on form as function. And I believe that I, as the lead stylist, am the only one who has the right to give orders around here."

"That may be true. But Annie won't listen to your 'orders,' will she? And she listens to me."

"Yes, yes, you have a remarkable talent for getting women naked. Maybe you and Finnick should join forces," Medina says.

The man shoots me a shy, conspiratorial smile, which I have no clue how to interpret, then shakes his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. Not my type. Besides, I'd rather dress people than undress them."

"That's great, Art School. But I'm dressing this one." Medina jerks a finger in the direction of Annie's bathroom door before hurrying into the room, determined to prove his point.

I gather from this exchange that the new prep went to art school rather than fashion school, making him somewhat of an anomaly amongst Hunger Games stylists, and that he was, for some reason, the only stylist that Annie allowed to observe her naked. I find myself grinning as I imagine the struggle that must have ensued in order to strip the stubborn girl out of her clothes.

The bathroom door slams open, and there is a crashing noise, and Medina comes flying out into the hall, his face red. A vein on his temple pulses, and he sports a lump on the side of his head that is rapidly swelling to the size of a baseball. The art school prep manages to change his laugh into a well-timed cough, and I realize I am not the only one who finds the whole situation amusing. A one-hundred-pound girl versus four full-grown Capitol stylists. And so far, Annie Cresta appears to be winning.

Medina flings his hands up in fury. "All I did was tell her about my absolutely _brilliant_ idea to surgically implant scales underneath her skin, and she went completely psycho, kicking and punching and freaking out like she's about to die."

I am abruptly furious, but before I can say or do anything, the stylist angrily turns on the still-chuckling prep with the gold eyeliner. "You want her, Art School? You got her." Without further ado, Medina strides away, shaking his head and making strange, disapproving clucking noises with his beak-like mouth.

The art school prep, eyebrows narrowed, pushes past Medina, shutting the door to Annie's styling room without further comment, and I wordlessly stalk from the training center to a waiting car that takes me to a luxurious residence deep in the heart of the Capitol, where I try to clear my mind of everything but the satin of sheets, the chill of sweat, and the satisfied moans of the woman wriggling on top of me.

But in the quiet afterwards, as I sip champagne and exchange meaningless caresses in an oversized bed in a rich stranger's candlelit room, I can't help but imagine little Annie Cresta, a teenager no bigger than a child, all alone in a flea-ridden bed with no sheets and a flimsy excuse for a mattress, tangle-haired and wide-eyed and quaking, with cold, dark bruises blossoming on her delicate face where some angry, impatient Home manager struck her in a senseless fury.

The champagne flute snaps in my hand, and it takes me a moment to realize that I broke it.


	5. Bringing Sexy Back

**Author's Note: I'd just like to thank everyone who reviewed the last couple of chapters...I definitely did not expect such a strong response to this story. I'm really glad you are all enjoying it, and I hope to continue living up to your expectations!**

My "clients" keep me busy until late afternoon, so I don't have the chance to see Annie before she heads off to her first day of training. I can only hope that Mags gave her some advice, even though she is technically Curtis's mentor. I know that Lydia Frill will whisk our tributes away to prepare for the evening's chariot parade as soon as the two come back from the training center, teaching them how to walk with pride, how to hold themselves, how to wave and beam – or scowl – on the chariot, how to act during the opening ceremonies.

I know without having to ask exactly what angle Curtis will play up tonight – with his perpetual grimace and the thick bands of muscle around his arms, he is nothing but brutal. But Annie – she's something else altogether. Too small to appear threatening, too young (and not at all lethal-looking enough) to pass as a Career, too spirited to be humble, too…well, strange to ingratiate herself with the Capitol citizens by acting like one of them, too naïve to be remotely sexy…

Sexy. The thought draws me up short. _I_ was sexy, to the Capitol, once. That was how Medina dressed me, how I wooed the crowd, how I gained sponsors. How I won the Games.

Yes, I was sexy, once.

Now, I am pure sex, through and through, every last barely clothed inch of me, from my shaped toenails to my sun-bronzed hair.

Mags tries to remind me that there's more to me than the way I wet my lips with my tongue and smile for the cameras, but it's so easy to forget, especially here, where all it takes is a wink and a seductive purr to have the Capitol's most powerful begging at my feet. More to me, more than my white teeth and hard abs and clever fingers, adept at tying knots and trained to please whoever purchases me for the hour? What more, exactly? My lethal skill with a trident, my disastrous track record as a mentor, my ability to so willingly kill other children to save my own life? No, thank you. I'd rather stick with the sex god thing.

But that's me, not Annie. She can't pull it off. She can't be dolled up like a piece of meat and presented on a silver platter as yet another sacrifice to the Capitol's lust. She can't…become me.

"Medina," I call, barging into the room where Annie is being prepped for the chariot ride, causing Galvin and Travia to squeal in surprise, or annoyance, or perhaps just pure glee at seeing the famous Finnick Odair yet again, up close and shirtless. (What, by the way, happened to my shirt last night? I seem to constantly lose them.)

"Medina, make sure she's not –"

But Medina is nowhere in sight. I guess he really did quit, then, leaving Annie in the hands of a young art school grad who's probably feeling way over his head right about now. The two preps stand by the wall, holding styling instruments and makeup cases; beside the full-length mirror, the dark-skinned man with the golden eyeliner makes a few final adjustments to Annie's costume, then steps back to give me a better view.

Annie wears a pale green sundress with flowing, half-sheer skirts that hang past her knees like seaweed. She has small, flat golden shoes on her little feet and a long wrap around her body – well, not a wrap, really. It's more of a net, gold and sheer and slightly sparkling, flowing from her shoulders down around her tiny body to brush onto the floor. Her hair hangs down, falling in rippling waves that reach nearly to her waist, and one side is pinned up loosely by what is undeniably a live starfish. She wears simple, District Four-style seashell earrings, and her makeup is minimal, just a light gloss on her lips, blush on her already rosy cheeks, and enough of something dark around her eyes to make them appear even wider than they already are. Her skin shimmers slightly in the light, and she looks up at the dark-skinned man from underneath long, dewy lashes, her face expectant and anxious.

"May I look now, Cinna?" she asks her new stylist.

Grinning, he turns her around to face the mirror, and she lets out a disbelieving sigh. "You're a genius."

The stylist – Cinna – smiles at her, clearly pleased with her approval. "Clothes don't make the woman, little Annie. The woman makes the clothes."

Annie positively glows under his praise, and for a moment, I am inexplicably furious. She could at least notice me. I'm in the room, too. And I am her mentor, after all – you know, the key to her entire survival in the arena. Not to mention an incredibly good-looking man. This Cinna person is just the guy who does her hair.

"I didn't go with Medina's original design," Cinna tells me. "He'd ordered high red wedges and started a dress that…er, really played up her figure, but…it didn't seem like her."

"I wasn't in favor of the hooker look, either," I assure him. "This is a lot better." I wonder if he realizes just how appropriate his choice of costume is. It's not like a stylist to choose a costume that even hints at defiance or social commentary, and tiny Annie trapped in a net most certainly suggests both.

Annie is fingering the soft fabric of the net, watching it bounce light around the room. "Because we're the fishing district, right?" she asks.

Cinna hesitates, then nods. "You could say that." He pauses, as if debating whether or not to continue. "You actually inspired it, little Annie, when you were talking about fish, earlier. And nets. And…"

"Giving them makeovers, and then catching them tight and spearing them," Annie finishes for him. He nods again. I suck in my breath and meet his gaze for the briefest of seconds.

Yes, Cinna knows exactly what he is doing.

And we both know he's playing a dangerous game.

I watch the opening ceremonies from a large, decorative box that seats all the past victors who are present in the Capitol. Annie seems taken aback that the crowds cheer when the District 4 chariot appears, but I am not the least bit surprised. Curtis looks every bit the fearsome Career, dressed in a glittering gold getup that makes him look like an ancient sea god. It does the trick, though I could have pulled it off a hell of a lot better. But not everyone can be drop-dead gorgeous, I suppose.

As for Annie – well, the audience doesn't quite know what to make of her, all wavy-haired and wide-eyed and lost in her own world. She doesn't smile – in fact, I don't think I've ever seen her smile – but they throw roses to her all the same, screaming her name when her porcelain features appear in high-definition on the screens that fill the auditorium.

"Look at the eyes on that one," snorts Haymitch, drunk as ever, from behind me. "She yours, Finnick?"

"I…uh…huh?" Smooth, Odair, real smooth.

"She your tribute?"

Oh. Right. Of course. What else would he be asking?

"Yeah."

"Course she is," chimes in Nathaniel, a tall man in his thirties who came from Seven with Johanna this year. "Four always brings the hot ones."

"She's _not_ hot." The words, more defensive than I mean them to be, are out of my mouth before I think – not that my thinking ever seems to make much of a difference, as Johanna is so fond of pointing out. Mags, sitting in a chair on my right, shoots me an odd look.

Johanna, on my left, snorts. "Odair's not that picky, Nate – if it's breathing, he's on it."

"Look who's talking," I spit back.

"Kids, kids," says Beetee good-naturedly. Johanna waves him away, and I try to loosen my automatically clenched fists.

"Look at her," I point out to the general crowd of mentors, determined to prove my point. "She's just a little girl."

"I bet half the men here have fantasies about little girls," Haymitch's one-handed drinking partner, Chaff from District 11, puts in. "And someone all doe-eyed and innocent like your…"

"An-nie." Mags mumbles the name. I glare at her.

"And the rest of them have fantasies about little boys, or grown men, or wild victor-on-victor orgies," I say. "That doesn't make it less perverse."

"Pot. Kettle. Black." Johanna mutters.

"Huh?"

Johanna pats me on the shoulder, and I flinch away, still pissed at her. "You know what they say about people who live in glass houses, Finnick."

"That they're morons who clearly have no knowledge of structural instability?" asks Beetee in utter seriousness. The tense mood dissipates ever so slightly.

"Aw, the boy's just jealous of his territory, right, Odair? Doesn't want some tiny slip of a girl stealing his spotlight," says Haymitch, punctuating this announcement with a loud belch.

I fight the urge to hit him. If only he knew…if only they all knew…

Instead, I smirk, jut out a hip, and cross my arms over the mesh, see-through thing that my stylist insists qualifies as a shirt. "It's gonna take a whole lot more than a girl in a net to do that, Haymitch. Some of the men here tonight may want her, but…" I motion him closer, as though letting him in on a secret. "There's not one person sitting out there who doesn't want Finnick Odair."

"Even the men?" Johanna, ever snarky, has to ask, her smile wicked.

"Course, Jo. _Especially_ the men. So I wouldn't get too attached to any of your Capitol boy toys, if I were you."

I easily sidestep her punch, wink at the other mentors, and stride off, out of the box and down the hall. The instant I turn the corner, I am accosted by a group of screaming teenage girls more deadly than any Gamemaker-designed mutts, and I have to hide in the men's bathroom until the coast is clear.

I'm sitting on a closed toilet seat, trying to rearrange the tangled mess of my "shirt," which one of the girls managed to grab hold of as they chased after me. I run a hand through my hair and look at myself in the mirror – messy hair, sculpted cheekbones, ridiculous clothes that reveal everything but the dignity I no longer think I have, glittering eyes that my Capitol lovers rave about, as though they really can't see the emptiness inside them. I sigh under my breath and pick a damp piece of toilet paper off the bottom of my shoe.

_Yep, Finnick Odair, you sure are sexy._


	6. Dirty

**Author's Note: I know it's short; this was just the natural stopping point for the chapter. Don't worry - more is soon to follow! I'm really glad everyone seems to be enjoying this story, and thank you again to all my reviewers! **

**I have gotten asked a couple of questions, so just to explain - yes, Cinna was a stylist for the first time during Katniss' Hunger Games. Technically, he's not a stylist right now - he's on the prep team (I am working on the assumption that you would have to work your way up to the position of stylist, just like you would for any other high-profile position in the working world), but since Medina left, he has taken over dressing Annie. Technically, Medina is still Annie's stylist, and right now no one but the preps, Annie, Cinna, and Finnick know otherwise. Also, in my version of the story, not all the victors who come back to the Capitol year after year know about Finnick's private "occupation." He is quite naturally ashamed and disturbed by who he has become, and is playing the role that everyone expects of him. At this point in the story, only Mags knows that he has been forced into prostitution, though some of the others who have dealt with Snow's demands (such as Johanna) suspect that something is up. And no, Johanna is not a prostitute like Finnick - her family was killed as a result of her refusal to go along with Snow, and now she has no one left that she loves...well, besides Finnick, but she's not ready to admit that just yet. Like Finnick, she too plays a character when in the Capitol, and has become cold and cut off from real emotions, playing around with the men of the Capitol just because she can. I hope that clears things up! Enjoy...**

I am mercifully free after the opening ceremonies – free for a few hours, at least – and I attempt to conceal myself from the crowd of admirers and paparazzi who seem to know my every move before I make it. In the giant room that houses the chariots, I lean against the wall, endeavoring to hide behind a pillar and remain inconspicuous, while Mags and Lydia hurry to help Annie and Curtis down. Obviously, I fail in my attempt, because within seconds of my arrival in the close-packed room, Callista Albright, the editor of _Capitol Couture_, is on top of me. Literally.

"Oh, Finnick Odair, can I have one moment of your time?" she asks, her professional tone at odds with her roving hands.

"Just the one?" I retort, smirking. "It generally lasts longer than that."

She has the decency to at least pretend to look shocked. "I'd like your take on the tributes this year," she continues, hands moving expertly up and down my chest. "Yours certainly looked…memorable."

"Yes, well, I'd like a lot of things, too, Callista," I purr. Her breasts, pushed up and nearly out of her shimmery, low-cut top, heave. It takes only the slightest flick of my tongue wetting my lower lip to drive her completely wild, her eyes glazing over with undisguised lust. Her hands roam lower, and my own breath hitches, but not for the reasons Callista supposes. She's not really planning on going at it here, against a pillar, in the middle of a bunch of underage kids who are sentenced to die in less than a week, is she?

My gaze flickers over to Four's tributes, who are staring in disbelief and – in Curtis's case – desire. Annie's nose is wrinkled up and her expression is blank, but Curtis looks on in wonder at the scene Callista is rather purposefully causing, his teenage eyes fixed in awe on her ample cleavage. He gets off the chariot and comes towards us, clearly hoping for an introduction, and I hold out my arm, gently but firmly pushing the magazine editor off me and turning her away from the near-salivating boy.

"Come on, babe, you better go, and I'll give you a call later. Can't do my job with all _that_ distracting me, can I?" I gesture to her body, raking my gaze up and down. The glittery butterflies tattooed up and down her arms certainly _are_ a distraction, though not perhaps in the way she means them to be. Callista giggles, a high-pitched, squealing sound reminiscent of a pig in heat, and reluctantly heads off, waving to me as she goes.

I turn back to the tributes, sensing eyes on me again, but by now Curtis is across the room, caught up in deliberations with the Career boy from 2. I spin around to find myself staring straight up into Annie's huge, kohl-lined eyes, eyes as turquoise-green and changing and fathomless as the sea. I still can't decipher the expression in them, and for a brief second, that disturbs me, and my heart begins to pound, ready to fight or flee from this unknown danger. But then I shake myself mentally and go over to the chariot she is standing in, reaching out my hand in an overblown show of chivalry.

"Annie Cresta. Allow me to assist you."

At the sound of my sultry, affected voice, she seems to come out of whatever thoughts she was wrapped up in. Her nose wrinkles again in evident distaste, and she picks up her long, flowing skirts in one hand as she gets off the chariot, carefully skirting around me as though my skin oozed a highly contagious disease.

"I'd rather not. I'm pretty sure I know where your hands have been lately."

She sweeps past me, a bruised, haughty teenager in a net, leaving me with my outstretched hand hanging empty in the air, feeling awkward for the first time in ages.

I guess I don't need to wonder if she saw me with Callista Albright.

I quickly recover, grabbing two of the Capitol fangirls nearest me and walking back to my quarters with a chattering blonde on each arm. As I pleasure them, using my fingers to make them gasp and scream in ecstasy, their shrieking laughter and needy touches and overly eager kisses doing nothing to fill the emptiness inside me, I am forced to admit that Annie Cresta made the right decision by refusing to let my filthy, disgusting, available-to-the-highest-bidder hands come anywhere near her pure little body.


	7. The Way She Smiles

I eventually convince the girls to leave, then spend the next few hours in the shower, trying to rinse off every last memory of their lapping tongues and claw-like nails. A note from President Snow himself reminds me that my patrons won't wait forever, and I wonder why I even bothered with the shower in the first place.

I am not free again until late the next night, so late it shouldn't properly be called night but instead ridiculously early in the morning, far too late to seek out Mags and hear how our tributes' first day of training went. Instead, I head to the roof of the training center, too keyed up to sleep, trying to shake off the after-effects of whatever was in that last drink, to ignore the pounding in my overtired brain, to forget about the uncomfortable way my sweat-stained leather pants cling to my legs.

I stand at the very edge of the roof, looking down at the glowing lights and twinkling billboards, the honking cars and the people, mostly drunk at this hour, roaming the streets in search of their next fleeting high. I think of Barstow Shan, the man I was with earlier, and shudder involuntarily as the image of his leering, pudgy face appears in my mind. I wonder, not for the first or last time, if the shock of jumping into the force field that surrounds the training center would be enough to kill me straight away, before the Capitol had time to bring me to a hospital and resuscitate me. I really should try it sometime.

A soft noise startles me out of my self-destructive musings, and I glance around, surprised to find that I am not alone on this rooftop. Annie and Cinna sit in the dirt in the middle of the little garden, surrounded by the wind chimes that blow and tinkle in the breeze. She has her head buried in her lap, and he has his arms clasped around his knees, a tormented expression on his face. They appear to be talking quietly.

No one notices my presence, so I stay still, listening to the rise and fall of their voices. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it. Besides, I rationalize, Annie never willingly talks to me, even though I'm her mentor. I didn't even have time to give her instructions about training today, because of my stupid client schedule. So how else am I supposed to learn about her?

"No, it was blonde, actually. And very, very short. Almost a buzz cut. But his facial expressions…and the way his eyes seemed to hold so many feelings, all at once…that's the part of you that reminds me of him," Cinna is saying.

"Oh. Cinna, I…I'm really, really sorry," Annie replies.

"So am I." I don't think I'm imagining the tears in Cinna's voice.

Annie remains silent for a long while.

"What about you, little Annie?" Cinna asks at last.

She shakes her head, letting out a strange, strangled laugh. "Are you kidding?"

Cinna looks at her. "No. Of course not. I honestly thought…you're a very pretty girl, Annie. I wasn't joking when I said that, before. And you're not at all stuck-up or superficial or -"

"You know what everyone in Four calls me? Crazy Cresta," Annie says.

Cinna is confused. "But you're not, little Annie. You're a very smart girl. Smarter than your years, in fact." She does not respond. "Annie, where're your parents?"

The girl sighs and plays with the lace edge of the flimsy nightgown she wears underneath her thick green bathrobe. "Mommy died…w-when I was f-four. She slipped and fell off the boat, in a storm. There was a…a whirl…p-pool…it ate her, Cinna, just like a m-m…like a mutt. I…I s-saw it. Daddy c-can't work. He…drinks. A lot."

"So they put you in a Home?"

Annie nods. "My brother d-didn't want to…I'm a pain," she explains, her tone sad. "I think…I embarrass him."

I realize that I am already walking towards her, drawn like a magnet by the sorrowful ache in her voice. Annie and Cinna, alerted to my presence, look up almost simultaneously.

"Alright, Cinna, quit flirting with my tribute," I say.

Inexplicably, Annie and Cinna burst out laughing, shooting each other highly amused glances that I don't understand at all.

"Hey, Annie, how was training today? I've been wanting to talk to you about it."

"Fine." She stares at her hands as though her fingernails are suddenly the most mesmerizing thing on the planet. Despite the fact that Finnick Odair himself is standing not three feet away from her, wearing nothing but skin-tight leather pants.

"Her knots amazed the instructor, and she learned a lot about edible plants, too. But she didn't want to do weapons. All the Careers were hanging out over there," Cinna tells me, his tone matter-of-fact.

I am suddenly, inexplicably angry. "And why the hell do _you_ know? She's _my_ tribute."

"Yes, that much was obvious when she was the only one who showed up at training alone this morning. Even Haymitch managed to sober up long enough to drag his tributes down there."

"Well, I'm sorry that I have other things to do. Believe me, _Cinna_" – I sneer his name – "believe me, I am. You don't know how much I wish this was my only responsibility. Teaching her to fight would be way better than- than –" I splutter.

"Than what, Mr. Odai- er, Mr. Finnick?" asks Annie, curiosity obviously having gotten the better of her revulsion towards me and my indecent ways.

I shake my head, astonished that my cheeks are actually turning red. I haven't been embarrassed in years. It's sort of hard to be, in my line of work.

"Annie, you should get some rest," I say instead, blatantly changing the subject.

"I can't. That room's too…too…" She looks at Cinna for help.

"Big? Fake? Capitol-ish?"

She nods, agreeing to all three. "Something like that. I keep expecting mutts to come out of the shadows and devour me."

"They won't, little Annie. It's the Capitol's job to keep you safe, until…until…" This time it's Cinna who is at a loss for words.

"Tell you what, Annie. Let's get some practice in, if you don't think you can sleep. I'll teach you how to throw knives."

"The weapons room is locked." But Annie actually looks relieved at my suggestion. She must really want something to do.

"We don't need it. Come on." She follows me down the stairs, stopping in the hall of our floor to give Cinna a big hug and bid him goodnight in the most sincere voice I have ever heard. It bothers me, the way she has absolutely no qualms about letting a strange Capitol man with gold eyeliner give her a goodnight hug. She's way too trusting.

I take her into the kitchen, where I find a collection of carving knives, and then we go to the conference center, which boasts a large, blank wall opposite the television screen. I toss a knife against the wall in demonstration, pleased that it sticks solidly. Her eyes widen ever so slightly, and I'd like to think that she is impressed. _There, Annie. Bet your _Cinna_ can't do that._

Then I hand her a knife and position her body properly, showing her how to throw the weapon, how to recoil her arm and release the knife, how to aim, how to hit a mark. At first, Annie is tentative, handling the knives with a caution that borders on timidity, as though she is afraid they might turn around on their own initiative and stab her in the gut. But she gradually becomes more confident, putting more of her strength behind the throws, solidly sticking a good number of them, and eventually managing to hit the centers of the circles I draw on the wall in white chalk. She must have either really good hand-eye coordination or really good luck, because her aim is true nearly every time.

"Okay, hotshot, try this," I say, pleased with her progress. I take the chalk and draw a series of large X's on the wall, directly below the ugly portrait of President Snow that the Capitol decorators hang in every room of the training center.

Annie selects three knives, sights for her marks, and throws, one after the other after the other. The first knife hits the wall handle-first and bounces back to us, but the other two hit the exact center of the X's.

"That was good, Annie. Two out of three isn't bad at all," I tell her.

She bends down and picks up the fallen knife. "No," she says. "But three out of three is perfect." And the knife whizzes through the air as she chucks it at the wall.

Straight into the photographed President Snow's left eye.

She bites her lip, nervously meeting my disbelieving gaze. And then I notice the mischievous sparkle in her eyes, and burst out laughing. She starts laughing, too, bending over and clutching her sides in mirth. Her laugh is sweet and ringing, a clear, genuine sound that inexplicably causes me to panic. At least, I think that's what I'm feeling. What else would explain my heart's sudden thumping against my ribcage?

"Here," I say finally, pulling the knife out of the portrait. "We shouldn't leave incriminating evidence around."

"Th-thanks." She is still gasping for breath. And then her stomach rumbles loudly, and she starts laughing again. I can't see her face, but I think she is blushing, judging by the red color of the part in her hair.

"Hungry?"

She nods slowly and looks up at me, her gaze tentative and shy.

"Me too. Come on, you. Let's go find something to eat." Before I fully realize what I'm doing, I reach down and grab her hand, pulling her up. I freeze instantly, physically shocked by an unseen electrical current burning through me.

I loosen my grip, afraid I've shocked her, too, expecting her to yell at me and back away, utterly repulsed by the merest brush of my defiled fingers against her soft skin, but instead she allows me to lead her to the kitchen, hesitantly giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. My heartbeat starts going wild again – I'm beginning to think that I'm having some sort of delayed reaction to whatever drink that last patron gave me. I must be, because there's no other way to explain the jolt of electricity that ran through my body when I first took her little hand in mine, or the vibrations that continue to race through me, warming me inside and out.

"Do you like pancakes?" I can actually cook pancakes, believe it or not. They are wholesome, filling, and relatively simple to make – the perfect sustenance for an eternal bachelor like me. "I'll make some, if you want."

"Oh-okay." She looks uncertain as I release my grip on her hand, feeling unnaturally cold the instant I do so, and motion for her to take a seat. She ignores the chair, and instead moves to help mix the ingredients I have assembled.

I shake my head as I stir the batter and pour it onto the hot griddle. "Not a chance. You're the one going in the arena in three days. Besides, you're the lady. That means you have to let me serve you." I pull out her seat with one hand and use the other to scoop up the first pancake, which is threatening to spill over onto the stove.

Annie is staring at me like I've grown three extra heads, and I suddenly realize that my voice is actually _my_ voice, not the low, seductive purr I always adopt when talking to the men and women who solicit my services in the Capitol.

I take out a plate, flip the (rather enormous) pancake high into the air, then expertly catch it on the china and place it in front of Annie. "Here you are, Miss Cresta," I say smoothly, winking and tipping an imaginary hat at her.

And for the first time, she smiles at me.

She smiles at me, cheeks dimpled and suddenly rosy, frothy sea green eyes glittering like water in the sun, lips full and pink and joyful.

She smiles at me, and my world shatters.


	8. Lying Broken on the Floor

**Author's Note: **

**First of all, I would like to say thank you to all the wonderful readers who have reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. I am so glad that you all like it, and it is definitely nice to receive some encouragement as a writer (especially in the face of rejection letters and such from publishers and magazines). I'd especially like to thank WerCub, mel, Stephanne21, Jada Ryl, and El (and anyone else I may have forgotten - sorry) for your amazing feedback and support. I hope this chapter, and the rest to come, live up to your expectations.**

**Secondly, just a fair warning - this is the most "adult" chapter so far. Nothing too graphic, but there are mentions of drug use, prostitution, and characters not wanting to be alive. Finnick is dealing with his demons, and Annie is struggling with her own...as much as we would all like them to be two teenagers in love, that's not where they are at this point. (But don't worry, they'll get there!)**

**Enjoy, and thanks so much for reading.  
**

That smile haunts me over the next few days, and I have no idea why. I keep glancing at Annie out of the corners of my eyes, watching to see if she smiles, if only so I can figure out just what it was that her smile managed to do to my stomach. But she doesn't smile again.

I only glimpse shadows of it – the merest hint of a grin in the turned-up corners of her mouth – when she sits with Cinna in the morning and flips through his sketchbook…when she tastes hot chocolate for the first time, her watery eyes dancing with surprised pleasure…when I find her practicing her throwing knives in the conference room long past everyone else has gone to bed.

We develop something of an unspoken ritual, in the short days before the Games. I still have to satisfy my patrons at night, and I usually don't make it back to the training center until the tributes are waking up, so I hide in my bed, dead to the world, during their training sessions. But I make a concerted effort to show up for dinner each night, then mess around tying knots or nursing a beer until the Capitol citizens have gone out and the District Four crew has gone to sleep, at which point I make my way, as if by complete accident, into the sitting area, where Annie seems to spend a good portion of every night tossing knives against the wall, her teeth gritted in concentration, her brow furrowed ever so slightly.

I recline with my legs stretched out on the couch and watch her, giving her pointers until she has mastered the technique. Afterwards, I make hot chocolate for the both of us (adding marshmallows to hers, and a generous shot of rum to mine), and we sip our drinks while Annie stares at the city lights shining through the window and I stare at the steam rising from our cups, and as soon as I am finished Annie whisks the cups away to wash them no matter how many times Lydia has admonished her about household chores being the Avoxes' job. Then Annie heads to her room for another sleepless night, and I head out to whatever club or bar or posh residence my latest client has designated as our meeting place. Annie never asks where I am going (although a part of me that I can't quite explain sometimes wishes she would), but she always gives me a little, bobbing curtsy before she leaves, murmuring a soft "Good night, Mr. Finnick. Sleep well" as we go our separate ways.

The evening before the day of the tributes' interviews with Caesar Flickerman, I return from a meeting with potential sponsors to find Mags, Curtis, and Lydia in the conference room, their eyes glued to a television screen buzzing with Capitol propaganda, waiting for the official announcement of the tributes' training scores. Annie is nowhere to be seen.

"Mags," I ask, "where's Annie?"

"Nice to see you too, Finnick," Lydia reprimands, her voice deliberately pitched in a manner she must think is alluring. I completely ignore her.

"Room," Mags tells me. "Training over…showed Gamemakers…doesn't want to talk."

Yeah, well. We'll see about that.

I go down the hall to Annie's room, turning the doorknob without bothering to knock. But of course, the door is locked. I bang my palm against it a few times and call her name. "Annie. Annie! Anna-Marie Cresta, open this door right now!"

"Don't call me that." Through the door, her voice sounds strange, hoarse and choked off.

"Annie, come on. Please. I just want to talk to you."

She opens the door a crack. Her face is pale, as usual, and I notice that her usually shadowed eyes are red and unnaturally dewy. Has she been crying? Something wrenches painfully inside my stomach.

"I just wanted to see how you did today," I tell her.

Her eyes narrow. "I got a 12, of course," she says bitterly. "How do you think I did?"

"It can't have been that bad," I argue, sticking my foot in the door before she can slam it in my face. She gives me a significant look that tells me otherwise.

"What did you do?" I ask. "What we talked about?" The night before, we had decided she should stick mainly to knots and survival skills, but that showing the Gamemakers that she could handle knives would be beneficial, too.

She shrugs and gives a half-nod. "I threw the knives. Tied knots. Made a trap."

"That sounds alright."

"It was," she tells me. "Until I…the floor was wet, and I slipped, and I…well…I forgot I was holding the knife, and…it was an accident." She holds out her arm, which is dripping blood. No wonder her face is so white.

My own face falls. Hurting yourself during your private session with the Gamemakers definitely does not bode well for your training score.

Annie turns away, as if ashamed. "You don't have to say anything. I already know what a disappointment I am."

Whatever I was planning to say to her, it certainly wasn't that. I wonder, not for the first time, where exactly she gets such a negative impression of herself. From her family, maybe, or the Community Home? From all the kids at school who always teased her about her ragged clothes and drunken father? Or from the rest of us in District Four who almost entirely ignored the hungry little girl who desperately tried to sell her wilting flowers on the beach? I feel a sharp twinge in my gut and decide not to carry that line of thought any further.

"No, Annie. No. You're not a disappointment. Not to me."

She narrows her eyes at me, like I might be playing around with her, and I know that she doesn't believe me. "Come with me, Annie," I continue, reaching out and gripping her arm. "We need to get that cut cleaned before you get your score."

She winces, and I realize that I, being the idiot that I am, just grabbed her injured arm. "Oh God – sorry," I say. I really am hopeless.

She pulls away from me. "I don't need to see my score. It's either a 1 or a zero."

It's actually a 4 – which isn't that much better, to be honest. I have to practically drag Annie out to the sitting room to watch the scores with the rest of us, and even then, she refuses to actually look at the TV.

She won't let anyone touch her wounded arm, either, though Mags and I do manage to talk her into washing and bandaging it up herself. She wraps the clean linens tight around her cut, her hands sure and experienced, as though she has done this a hundred times before. My eyes drift to the scratches on her wrist from our struggle in the prep room a few days ago, and I once more remember the terrifying bruises all over her skin. Maybe she has.

Curtis earns a 10 – tying with the Career boy from 2 and the Career girl from 1 for the highest training score – and Lydia shrieks in excitement, clapping her hands together like a possessed woman and popping open a bottle of champagne. Somewhere in the midst of our little celebration, Annie silently disappears once again.

I want to go knock on her door again, but I can't – another note from President Snow is burning a hole in the pocket of my tight, faded jeans. Besides, I don't know what I'd say to comfort her, anyways. Even she realizes that she doesn't stand much of a chance to survive the Games.

When everyone else heads to their rooms, I change into a pair of even tighter pants made out of a shimmery, stretchy black material, slip on a strategically unbuttoned gold shirt, and head out into the night, wanting a decent night's sleep more than almost anything and wishing with all my might that whoever has bought me for the night won't be a freak with a bunch of outrageous fantasies she – or he – expects me to fulfill.

Of course, Finnick Odair's wishes don't tend to come true. Especially not where the Capitol is concerned.

I stumble back to the training center around three in the morning, desperately trying to keep from throwing up as I ride the elevator to what I think is the fourth floor. My head spins, my mouth is dry, and a sheen of sweat coats my face. I am alternately shivering and burning, my stomach heaving from some combination of alcoholic beverages and designer pills that I can't quite remember having taken. Malichai Romhearst, President Snow's Vice-Secretary of the Cabinet of the Something-or-Other, otherwise known as The Man Finnick Odair Really Hates Spending the Night With, always likes to "have some fun before getting it on," as he so eloquently puts it.

The elevator door opens and I fall to the ground. The room starts turning fast, then faster. Too fast. I vomit, over and over, the smell of it making me wretch even more. I want to brace myself, to somehow keep my spent body from falling face-first into my own mess, but my hands are shaking violently, and I can't even feel the rest of my arms anymore.

As if outside myself, I dimly notice the bloody bracelets ringing my aching wrists. The Vice-Secretary – what was his name again? – could only get off after handcuffing me to the bed. And – the throbbing of my swollen eye suddenly reminds me – letting off steam with a litany of hard, solid blows. I keel over again, my wobbly knees no longer able to even attempt to support me. Something hot runs down my cheek as my head collides with the tiled floor.

"Mr. Finnick?"

I know that voice. It is a girl's voice. Not a patron. Not a silly, frilly Capitol woman. It's someone I trust.

I hear the voice again, coming closer…or is it moving farther away? I sure wouldn't blame her – whoever she is – for running. I can't stand the sight of puke, much less the smell of it, and there's no way I would ever…ever…I can't remember what I was thinking about. I can't remember where I am, for that matter. My stomach heaves again as I throw up what must be the contents of every meal I have ever eaten. Sweat pours down my face and drips down my back, chilling me to the bone. For a moment, stars dance in front of my eyes, and I almost think I imagine soft hands against my forehead, holding back my hair as I vomit up the cocktail of drugs the man gave me. Then red, bright darkness rushes over me, and I see nothing more.

I wake up in my own warm bed to sunlight streaming through the windows and the salty smell of something homey and wonderful. I lie in bed, head throbbing, unwilling to open my eyes, afraid that if I do, the sea-salt smell will vanish and I will find myself, as I so often have before, in some seedy back alley bar, passed out with three naked women on top of me and a note from President Snow crumpled in my hand.

Beneath the pounding in my skull, memories drift aimlessly, unplaceable and impossible, vague recollections so hazy that I am certain they were nothing but a strange, drunken dream – unbelievably gentle hands holding back the tangled mess of my hair, wiping my face and mouth and neck with a cool cloth, stroking my sweat-slick forehead…a small, strong body supporting mine, a shoulder to lean on as I half-fell, half-dragged myself into my room…soothing words as someone held ice water to my lips and coaxed me to drink….a haunting, lonely sea shanty filling the cavernous emptiness inside me as I once more drifted off into unconsciousness…

"Here, Mr. Finnick. Drink this." I blink, eventually managing to open my eyes. Annie – a few Annies, to be precise – sways in front of me, holding out a tall glass of something golden and fizzy. I rub my eyes, forcing them to focus, and the three Annies become one – one small girl with frizzy hair and bloodshot eyes, a crumpled dress, and a look of worry and utter exhaustion on her face.

"Here," she says again, her voice barely above a whisper, for which my hungover brain is extremely grateful.

I make a face. "No…no beer." My voice is scratchy and hoarse.

"It's not beer, Mr. Finnick. It's ginger ale. It will make you feel better. And I made you some breakfast, too, when you feel up to it." She motions to my nightstand, where I see a tray full of toast, jam, fruit, and warm muffins. Despite the throbbing pain in every last bone in my body, my mouth waters.

I take the ginger ale and sip it. She's right – it does make me feel better.

As I raise the glass to my mouth again, I notice that my wrists have been expertly bandaged, with clean white gauze now covering the deep welts caused by the handcuffs. The wounds tingle slightly, as though they have been doused in antiseptic.

For some unknown reason – probably lack of sleep coupled with crashing down from last night's high – I feel my eyes getting tight, like they do before I cry. Which is ridiculous, of course; I'm love-'em-and-leave-'em Finnick Odair, trident-wielding playboy and ultimate sex god, the youngest victor to ever win the Hunger Games. I haven't cried since…well, since the day I was Reaped. But I make a point not to think about that day. Ever.

"I'm starving." Abruptly, I reach for the food, determinedly blinking back the water that is not – I repeat, is _not_ – threatening to flood my eyes. Still groggy, my hand gropes blindly through the empty air beside my bed.

"Here." Annie hands me a muffin, and the instant I bite into it, I groan in unexpected and absolute delight. The muffin is hot and buttered and tastes of the salty seaweed of home.

"This…is amazing," I manage between enormous mouthfuls. Annie blushes and ducks her head.

"You should take these," she tells me, holding out two pills. Two aspirin, to be exact. I obey, swallowing them down like a compliant little boy, so unaccustomed to being cared for, so desperate to please.

"Lie down." I do. Annie takes a warm, wet washcloth and dampens my face, then my neck, my arms, my hands. My eyes drift closed, relaxed. Her touch is so alien, so soothing, so gentle – I abruptly realize that this is the first time since my mother's death that anyone besides old Mags has touched me gently, with no demands and no expectations. I have to forcibly keep myself from sighing, and I squeeze my eyes shut as they involuntarily tighten again.

The warm cloth – and Annie's hands – stop at my collarbone, and she eyes what's left of my sweat-soaked, puke-stained gold shirt with distaste. "You should shower and change your clothes."

"Yeah." My voice comes out unexpectedly husky. I manage to wiggle out of the disgusting shirt, tossing it on the ground and hoping I never lay eyes on it again. That exhausts what little energy I have, and I limply fall back into the pile of pillows.

Through half-closed eyes, I notice that Annie is stoically keeping her gaze off my bare chest. Her usually pale cheeks are rosy as she rinses the washcloth in a bowl on my nightstand.

"You can keep going, if you want," I purr, raising my eyebrows invitingly and gesturing to my half-naked body. Because I am comfortable being a piece of meat, even if I don't necessarily like it, and because I suddenly feel – well, I don't know how I feel, and because joking around by turning the attention to my unrivaled specimen of a body is the only way I know to cover up my embarrassed confusion.

Annie drops the cloth as though it suddenly scalded her hands. "Keep drinking fluids," she tells me, her quiet voice as matter-of-fact as a trained nurse's.

She goes over to the large chair in the corner. All the throw pillows have been pulled off it, the cushions are wrinkled, and a spare blanket hangs over the side, as though…as though…I feel a sudden spasm in my stomach that is either guilt or hunger. Did she sleep here all night?

She takes a roll of bandages from under the chair and comes back. "Um, Mr. Finnick…can I change your bandages for you?"

Suddenly, I don't want her here anymore. I don't want her helping me, treating me kindly, caring for me. Not when I don't deserve it. Not when I am such a repulsive, worthless, pathetic excuse for a man that I can't even deal with my problems on my own…that I show up drunk and bloody and high and God knows what else in the dead of night and make her feel like she is obligated to help me out…that by simply being in the same room as her, I am somehow corrupting gentle, innocent little Annie. Not when I know that she'll be dead in under a week, and there's no way I can ever repay her for making me feel like an actual human being for the first time in five years.

"You need to get to training," I tell her, my voice harsh. "I'm sure you're already late."

She looks confused. "Training ended yesterday. We're supposed to be with our mentors now. Working on…on strategy. For the interviews."

"Oh." The interviews. I'd completely forgotten, what with the pounding in my head and the nausea in my stomach.

I don't know how I'm going to coach Annie through her interview today. I really don't have the energy to deal with the Games right now. To be honest, I don't really have the energy to stand up right now. But I feel warm, firm fingers on my wrists, taking off the bandages and rubbing antiseptic ointments into the red, raw welts underneath, and I know I can't let Annie down.

She re-wraps my wrists, then takes an ice cube from the ginger ale and holds it to my swollen eye. Annie squeezes out more of the antiseptic and wipes it in a streak from my temple to my cheek, and I realize that I have a long, shallow cut there, too. It is more than a little disturbing that I can't quite remember how I got it.

"Did you get in a fight, Mr. Finnick?" she asks me.

I wish. I roll my eyes and shrug off her question. "Something like that."

"My daddy always gets in fights when he drinks."

I am a little surprised that she is telling me this. I have no idea how to respond. "I…I'm so sorry, Annie."

She gives me a weird look. "It's not your fault. Here. Eat some more." She hands me another muffin, which I attack with relish. Annie starts cutting up the fruit and putting it in a bowl.

When she is halfway done, her eyes glaze over, moving from the apple in her hand to the sharp knife she is holding. She stops cutting. Her gaze flickers to the window, back to the knife, to my bandaged wrists, to her own slim, bruised ones.

I know exactly what is going through her head.

Somehow, I find the strength to stand up. My head spins, but I don't have time to wait for the dizziness to subside. "Annie."

She doesn't seem to hear me. I watch her run her finger across the serrated blade, a distant, contemplative look on her face. The look suddenly changes to one of fierce determination, and I leap forward, grabbing her around the waist and knocking the knife out of her hand in a single swift move.

She cries out, surprised. I pick up the knife and clench it in my fist. "Don't, Annie. You can't."

She grits her teeth. "I can too." She sounds like a pouting child, and I would laugh if the situation wasn't so bleakly humorless. "I could. I _could_. And at least…that way…it would be my choice, instead of theirs." She tries to squirm out of my grip, but I hold her tight.

"Let me go!" She whirls on me, furious, and for a moment, I think she is going to start pounding my body with her fists. But instead she hurriedly lowers her eyes to the ground, looking anywhere but at me. I once again realize that my chest is completely bare, and make a mental note that even though going shirtless has become such a natural state for me, it really isn't all that normal. At least not in polite, non-Capitol company.

I let Annie go and carefully, deliberately set the knife down on the tray, keeping my gaze locked on her still figure. 'I know, Annie. Believe me. I know all about wanting control of your own life."

I abruptly feel like throwing up again, so I flop down on the bed, patting a space on the mattress next to me to indicate to Annie that she should sit, too. She eventually does so, but slowly, warily. I wonder if she thinks I'm going to yell at her or something.

"They won't let you…do that to yourself, Annie." For some reason, this conversation is hard for me. I don't want to imagine a world without the gentle young girl who helped me last night when all the patrons and fangirls who squeal meaningless professions of love and throw themselves at me at every turn were nowhere to be found. "They need you alive, for the Games. You know that."

She closes her tired eyes. "In the Games, then?"

I decide to be honest with her. I owe her that much. "You could do that. It's been done before. But you should know, there would be…repercussions."

And then I hesitate. Does it matter that District Four would have to deal with the ramifications of her rebellion, that whatever's left of her family could get into trouble, that her prep team would be banned from the Capitol's glitzy parties and Mags and I would be punished in some way? Shouldn't she be allowed this last wish? Shouldn't she have the right to die as she chooses? It's not like anyone in our District has ever even noticed Annie, much less protected her. Why should I give her the burden of protecting them now?

"Would they hurt you, Mr. Finnick?" she asks, picking up on my hesitation. "And…and Cinna and Mags and D-Daddy?"

I'm not sure how they could hurt her father, short of cutting off District Four's entire supply of alcohol, but I know that's the last thing she needs to hear right now. Instead, I nod wordlessly, her concerned words playing through my head again and again, like a song stuck on repeat. I know it's vain and arrogant and incredibly Finnick Odair-like of me, but I can't help but feel pleased that she worried about me getting hurt before she thought of Cinna.

"But you should do what you want, Annie. We can all take care of ourselves. And…well, you deserve…" I trail off, uncertain of what I really want to tell her. She deserves to make her own decisions, that much is certain. But what she truly deserves is a long, healthy, happy life, a life of comfort and plenty and opportunity, a life away from drunken fathers and neglectful brothers and cruel classmates…a life without even a whisper of the Hunger Games threatening her world. And nothing that I say can ever give her that.

She shakes her head firmly. "No. I couldn't. Not…not when you…You're hurt so bad already, and if someone hurt you more…" She presses her hands to her ears and shakes her head so violently I am afraid it might fall off her neck. "Stop! Stop! Make it stop!"

"Annie. Annie, calm down." I carefully pry her hands away from her head. "It's alright, Annie. It's…it's all gonna be alright." I pat her on the back awkwardly, and she gasps in pain. I remember her bruises and change tactics, rubbing small circles on her back instead.

She drops her head into her lap and sighs dejectedly. "I know it's not," she tells me. "But when you say it...I almost believe you." She looks up at me then, her eyes wide and desperate and utterly lost. "I wish I had your confidence, Mr. Finnick."

I have nothing to say to that. I can't tell her that I am probably the least confident person ever to walk the streets of the Capitol. I know she wouldn't believe me, and I know I could never explain.

We sit in silence for a while, but the silence is strangely comfortable. I pick up another muffin – my third, or is it my fourth now? – and slowly peel it apart with my fingers, relishing the warm, salty taste of it on my tongue. "You're a terrific cook, Annie."

She shoots me a sad, wry grin. "Too bad there won't be a giant oven in the arena."

I smile back at her, cringing as the cut on my face stretches painfully. "You never know. And there are always ways to improvise with the resources available to you," I tell her, going into full-on mentor mode. "Hot rocks or water warmed by the sun can heat food just as well as –"

Annie shudders violently, and I stop talking, uncertain. "Mr. Finnick?" She gives me a distressed, pleading look. "I…I have one day left. Can we please not talk about…about the G-Games?"

"Of course, Annie." How could I deny her that?

And then I get an idea. "Hey, tell you what – you don't have anything scheduled until prep this afternoon. So let's both get cleaned up a little, and then you can come back here, and we can just hang out. I've got a bunch of movies, and I think I have some books and board games somewhere, too –"

Annie's eyes literally light up. "You have _books_?"

What does she think, that just because I spend more time in the Capitol than out of it, I don't know how to read? Okay, I did drop out of school at the age of sixteen, but that certainly wasn't by choice. I'm not entirely brainless. (Though I'm sure Johanna would be quick to dispute that.) "Yeah. You can read all day, and try to relax, if that's what you want to do. And I'll order some lunch for us, alright?"

"Okay. I…I'd like that." Annie gives me a shy smile, and my heart thumps erratically in my chest, making it difficult for me to breathe. I'm definitely having some sort of overreaction to whatever drugs I took last night.

Half an hour later, Annie and I – both freshly showered, with damp hair and clean, fresh-smelling clothes – sit across from each other on my window seat, playing an old game called Risk and eating popcorn. Annie is solidly whipping my ass, and rather unsuccessfully trying to keep from grinning triumphantly each time she takes out another one of my troops.

"Annie, this is a strategy game, and you're great at it. Look, if you use the same type of thinking in the arena, you can –"

She shakes her head, cutting me off. "No. Don't talk about it, remember?"

"Okay." I notice that her hands are shaking, and I reach out, wanting to – to what? Touch her? Wrap my dirty, calloused fingers around Annie's soft, tiny ones? Take her little hand in my own and tell her that she has nothing to worry about? I freeze and turn my motion into something else, grabbing more popcorn and overeagerly shoving it into my mouth. Annie gives me a quizzical look, but says nothing.

I do not mention the Games again. Instead, we play Risk and watch a movie – some sappy love story about a rich girl and a working-class boy trapped on a sinking ship, because I don't think Annie could take a bloody war film right now – and Annie goes through my meager collection of books, telling me which ones are worth reading and which ones I shouldn't bother with, her face and voice becoming animated as she describes her favorite novels in great detail. I learn that she loves to read, and I suddenly remember seeing her name at the top of a list of test scores hanging on the wall at school. I am not at all surprised.

Sometime after noon, when we are both sleepy, lounging back against the sun-soaked cushions of the window seat and letting our lunch digest, Annie insists on changing my bandages again. I half-heartedly protest, insisting that I can do it myself, but the memory of her tender touch is so strong in my mind that I don't really put up much of a fight. She is just finishing tying a new set of clean bandages around my wrists when I sit up with a startled jerk.

"Annie, where's my bracelet?"

"What?" I glance down at her – she is staring out the window with that faraway look in her eyes again, like her mind isn't really present in the same space as her body.

"My bracelet, Annie. What the hell did you do with it?"

"I…it's…" Her face turns ashen and she looks frightened, but I can't bring myself to care. If she lost it, or threw it away, she'll have a lot more than the arena to fear.

I seize her by the shoulders and shake her, distraught and angry. "Anna-Marie Cresta, where the fuck is my bracelet?"

Her eyes fill with panic, and I instantly regret my harsh words. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Finally, she raises a limp hand and points to my dresser. I rush over, relieved to find my ragged rope bracelet sitting there, on top of a notebook I have never used.

I touch the worn rope, comforted by the bracelet's faint sea-scent and the familiar feel of the knots under my fingers. Then I realize that the once-frayed ends have been expertly tied together again, and that the old rope shines as though it has been carefully polished.

My throat constricts uncomfortably. "Annie, did you –"

I turn to her, and immediately wish I hadn't. She is huddled in a corner, as far from me as she could possibly get without leaping out the window. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her body, and she is trembling uncontrollably. Unshed tears burn in her eyes, and I instantly feel like the biggest jerk in all of Panem. I'm sure no shortage of people would be eager to point out that that is exactly what I am.

"Annie, I…I didn't mean to…" I groan and run a hand through my hair as I try to explain. "This was my District token, from my mother. She made it for me, before…well, before…everything…and I never take it off, not in the shower, not when I swim, not ever. So when it wasn't around my wrist, I thought it was gone, and I just – I just freaked out, Annie."

Motionless, barely even breathing, she stares at me, almost through me, her eyes wide and watery.

"You fixed it for me, didn't you?" I ask, kneeling down beside her, careful to keep my voice soft.

She flinches away, banging her head against the wall behind her. "P-please…don't h-hit me," she stammers out in a quaking whisper.

I can't remember ever feeling like a worse excuse for a human being. And coming from a guy who murdered little children with a trident when he was only fourteen, that's really saying something.

"Oh, Annie…" Self-loathing floods through me as I move away from her and sink down onto the foot of my bed. "I'm not going to hit you, Annie. I…I just want to tell you how sorry I am. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I shouldn't have…um…used those words." I'm not used to apologizing, especially not for swearing, but I can see how deeply I have upset her. I don't know if I can set it right, but I have to try.

She just keeps staring at me with those huge, indecipherable green eyes of hers.

"Mr. Finnick hates Annie," she declares at last, her quiet voice sad and certain.

"No…"

"Mr. Finnick wants to…to kill Annie?"

"What? No, no, of course not. Never. Annie, I –"

"Mr. Finnick hurt Annie," she tells me, still using that strangely remote tone. Her hands clutch at her shoulders, right where I grabbed her. I drop my eyes, thoroughly ashamed.

"I didn't mean to, Annie. I swear. I was angry – I was being stupid. I thought…God, Annie, I don't know what I thought. I'm so sorry." I move towards her, trying to make her realize exactly how awful I feel about this whole thing. My fingers barely touch her curled-up hands before she jumps as if shocked, scooting further back into the corner, cowering against it as though she can melt into the wall if she tries hard enough.

"A-Annie needs to leave," she announces, standing up and slowly backing out of my room, as though I am a wild animal who might attack the instant her back is turned.

I hear the door click shut behind her, and I slump forward, my stomach churning, my head throbbing once more.

I have never felt more alone in my life.


	9. Questions and Answers

**Author's Note: I realized I didn't give a disclaimer at the beginning of this story. So this may come as something of a shock to all of you, but...I don't own the Hunger Games. Honestly. If I did, I wouldn't be working three jobs to pay rent. I also don't own the story of The Little Mermaid (the version I refer to here is the original one by Hans Christian Anderson, though I do change the ending a little to better fit the Hunger Games universe). Enjoy!**

* * *

A few minutes later, an Avox comes in with yet another of the hated notes from Snow, and my aching body is kept busy for the rest of the afternoon. I can't help the wanderings of my mind, though – but if I am less than entirely present mentally during my time with Cassandra Henderson, a famous Capitol singer about my age who was probably attractive three plastic surgeries ago, she neither notices nor cares. I am relieved when she proudly announces that Caesar Flickerman himself invited her to sing at his exclusive interview pre-party, and I manage to extricate myself from her clawing grasp with a few well-timed hints about wanting to give her enough time to shower and choose the perfect outfit.

With a great deal of effort, I drag myself back to the training center, the soreness in my muscles matched only by an uncomfortable tightness that I can't shake out of my chest. I am rapidly developing a black eye where Malichai Romhearst hit me in the face last night, and the sweat dripping through the bandages and soaking my cut wrists stings painfully. I am so out of it that I almost run into Mags as she exits the elevator I am heading towards.

"Mags! Sorry." I steady her, wrapping an arm around the old woman. She gives me a toothless smile.

"You comin', son?"

"Um…coming where?"

"Interviews." She checks the clock above the elevator shaft. "Ten minutes now."

"_What?_" Damn Snow. Damn him and his stupid clients and their insatiable appetites. And damn me too, while you're at it. Annie must think I'm the worst mentor ever.

Annie.

I've been trying not to think about her since she left my room, all terrified and trembling. But Cassandra Henderson wasn't much of a distraction. I don't know how Annie will react to the interview – I haven't told her what to expect, how to behave, what angle to play up, what topics she should definitely steer clear of. I don't even know what the hell Medina, or Cinna, or whoever's dressing her now, put her in…

Mags must sense my panic, because she puts a gnarled hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, Finnick. We took care of her."

"We who?"

"Me. Lydia. Cinna. Mostly Cinna."

That's good. It _is_ good, right? Cinna likes Annie. Maybe a bit too much, but I'm sure Mags would tell me that's not relevant at the moment. He wants Annie to do well. He wouldn't deliberately jeopardize her chances, or make her wear something really awful up on stage. And I'm sure Annie was more than appreciative of his presence (and my absence), especially considering how much she must absolutely despise me after I flipped out on her about the bracelet. So why do I want to hit something when I think about Cinna comforting Annie before her interview?

"It's okay, son. She's ready. She'll be fine."

"I know that. It's just…" But I can't explain what I'm feeling to Mags, because I don't even understand it myself. Besides, I would feel foolish telling her that _I_ wanted to be the one to get Annie ready for her interview. I mean, Cinna could go ahead and do his styling thing, but I could have helped her with her shoes and her jewelry and made sure she felt okay in whatever she was wearing, couldn't I? I wanted to coach her, talk her through her stage fright…make sure she was alright.

I run a hand through my hair, causing it to stand up in all directions. None of this makes sense. Because the past four years I've mentored, I deliberately avoided getting to know my tributes on a personal level at all, and the last time I checked, Finnick Odair wouldn't be caught dead inside a prep room, unless he was having sex in it or getting his hair gelled.

"Don't worry, Finnick. She's lovely." Mags' smile broadens, and for some reason, I can't look at her.

"What's her costume?"

"Mermaid."

"Damn it, Mags…"

"Smile for your fan club, honey," Mags coos in a purposely annoying tone as we step outside and are swept away by the roaring crowd of people eagerly flocking to Caesar Flickerman's annual night of Hunger Games interviews.

I paste my trademark smirk on my face and blow a few kisses in the direction of a group of girls waving banners that feature my name inside red and pink hearts. "But Mags…a mermaid?"

The mermaid motif is dismally overused for District Four's female tributes; I hate to admit it, but I actually expected something more original from Mr. Art School Super-stylist. What worries me more than Cinna's lack of creativity, however, is how traditionally skimpy mermaid costumes tend to be. There's no way I'll let little Annie be presented to all of Panem in some tiny bikini top, or, even worse, with nothing but two shells covering her chest.

"Not that kind of mermaid." Mags cuffs me gently over the head, a subtle reminder to get my act together. "Fairytale."

Well, thanks for explaining that one. "Did anyone give her advice on what to say? You should hear some of the things that come out of her mouth, Mags – if she starts going on about cages again, or dressing up fish and killing them…"

"Mysterious."

"Huh?" I glance around, taking in the packed auditorium we have just entered. It looks the same as it always does – crowded with Capitol citizens in brightly-colored clothing, their skin and hair and nails and tattoos so vibrant that it physically burns my eyes when I look at them. A group of giddy preps and stylists gossip off to the side of the stage; the familiar cluster of tense, anxious mentors sits in the very front. Two empty chairs occupy the stage – one for Caesar and one for a guest. There's nothing mysterious in any of that.

"Her angle. Mysterious. Vague. Indirect. You know," Mags explains, as if I am the densest person in Panem. She leads me to two empty seats in the mentor row and pushes me into one, then takes my hand in her own and taps the top of it a couple of times. "Calm down, son. She's a natural."

I turn to Mags, about to tell her that obviously she doesn't know Annie very well if she thinks the girl is a natural at anything related to communication and self-promotion, but at that moment, the lights dim. The restless audience falls silent as Caesar Flickerman, dressed in a pastel green suit that perfectly matches his pastel green skin, hair, and eyebrows, appears on the stage, welcoming us all to another "exciting year of the Hunger Games" and introducing his first guest of the night, the Career girl from District One.

Her name is Crescent, and she sashays onto the stage as though she owns the place, her black leather getup (representing precisely what aspect of District One, might I ask?) making her look every inch the lethal warrior.

I honestly do try to pay attention during her interview and the ones that follow, but I keep getting distracted by random scenarios playing through my head – Malichai Romhearst and Cassandra Henderson and the purple-skinned birthday twins, greedily leering at a nearly-naked Annie, their eyes full of undisguised lust; Annie walking on stage and zoning out completely, sitting speechless and motionless for the whole three minutes of her interview; Annie looking straight into the cameras with those haunting eyes of hers and announcing very matter-of-factly that the Hunger Games are a corrupt device of corrupt leaders desperate to maintain their power…

"Finnick." Mags grabs my left hand, which has, quite on its own volition, spent the past ten minutes restlessly twisting the fabric of my shirt. I feel fingers clenched hard on my thigh, and look down, surprised to see my right hand digging so hard into my leg that I have torn right through the thin fabric of my pants. Grommett is going to murder me. Maybe I'll be the first victor ever to survive the arena only to fall victim to a drawn-out, gruesome death by stylist.

"Finnick," Mags says again, "look."

I follow her gaze. The gathered crowd takes a collective breath as a ghostly pale, wavy-haired beauty wearing a flowing, floor-length gown that appears to be made entirely of sparkling, undulating sea foam slowly glides onto the stage. Her dress is sculpted to show off her slender shoulders and delicate curves, hugging her small form tightly until it reaches her knees, where it flares out in a cascade of greenish-blue fabric that resembles a tail.

I hear excited whispering all around me, and I know that this tribute has made an impression on the Capitol crowd – and especially on the men, judging by the timbre of their raised voices. Although it has been a long, long time since I have bothered to take any particular note of a woman's physical appearance (it's better not to look at all, when you know you can't choose anyone you might actually be attracted to anyway), I have to admit that this woman's alien beauty holds me just as captive as the rest of the audience clearly appears to be.

I flip through my program, trying to find her name. Mags gives me a puzzled look. And then the number 4 flashes on the high-definition screens strategically scattered throughout the auditorium, and it is my turn to be confused.

Caesar Flickerman motions for the girl to sit. Eventually she does so, but not before looking around the enormous stadium with wide, eerily familiar eyes. She drops into a small curtsy as she turns back to Caesar and takes her seat.

The instant she curtsies, I know exactly who she is, and something inside me plummets – or does it soar?

"Annie Cresta," Caesar Flickerman announces. "District Four." A hush falls over the crowd, though I can hear the scratching of pens as people in the audience scribble notes in their programs. I can only hope they are writing down how much money they'll donate to sponsor her.

Annie tilts her head like a little porcelain doll. "Caesar Flickerman," she declares, quite unnecessarily. "District...Capitol!" Her voice rises nervously at the end.

Everyone laughs, and Annie looks bewildered. She glances down at the floor, and I don't have to see her face to know that she is blushing.

"Well, Annie, welcome to District Capitol," Caesar says gamely, his lips twitching in amusement. "How are you finding things here so far?"

Annie raises her head. Her eyes are sparkling, but I think it's just an effect of the makeup or the lighting, because she is not smiling at all. "It's very different from where I live."

"I'm sure it is. Tell us about District Four, Annie. Tell us about your home."

"There's a beautiful ocean that borders our village," Annie murmurs, her turquoise-green eyes distant. "When the setting sun hits the water just right, it glitters so beautifully, like the gemstones that the women here wear. And when you feel the wind blowing salty spray on your face, and the sand tickling your toes, and the warm sunlight dripping down your back…it's like everything is right with the world."

I couldn't have put it better myself. I hear the people around me sigh, their heads full of a paradisiacal version of District Four.

"So it's accurate to say that you miss your District?" Caesar asks.

Annie does not answer right away, but instead tilts her head again, questioningly this time. "Parts of it."

Caesar glances at his notes, then back at Annie. "You live in the Community Home, right?"

Annie gives a stiff, barely-perceptible nod.

Caesar presses forward, unmindful of her evident discomfort. "Can we assume that you don't have any family back home cheering you on?" I see Annie freeze, watch her hands go limp and her eyes take on that glazed, lifeless look that quite frankly terrifies me, and I want to run up on the stage and punch Caesar Flickerman right in his powdered green nose. What is his problem, anyway? Is he deliberately trying to upset Annie? Or is he really as absolutely oblivious as he seems?

"It's never wise to assume anything." Annie's voice, though still quiet, has an icy strength to it that commands attention. Someone behind me gasps and comments that District Four tributes used to only have looks, not intelligence. I'm going to go out on a limb here and take that as an insult.

Caesar nods, as though Annie has bestowed profound wisdom upon him. "Very true. Now, I would guess that you are dressed like the water you clearly love so much, but since I'm a little afraid to assume anything when it comes to you, maybe you can tell us about it."

Annie looks down at her dress, grinning for the first time since she walked on stage. "I'm a mermaid."

"Are you? But…" Caesar looks flummoxed. "I thought mermaids had green scales. And wore seashell bras. By those standards, you're really a rather modest mermaid." Caesar raises his eyebrows, and a few of the men in the audience hoot and whistle. I try not to imagine whatever obscene fantasies might be running through their filthy minds, but in spite of my best efforts, I still see red.

To my surprise, Annie chuckles. "My stylist designed it based on the story of _The Little Mermaid_. I think…I think I'm the Little Mermaid. At the end, you know."

Caesar once again looks confused. "But in the end, the Little Mermaid gets human legs and marries the prince. At least, that's what happens in my granddaughter's book of fairytales."

The audience – and Annie – laughs along with Caesar this time, and I am starting to feel a little better about this interview.

Annie shakes her head. "That's one ending." Her voice grows soft and wistful. "All the fairytales are so much happier, in the Capitol."

The people in the crowd sigh as though they too empathize with the regret in Annie's voice. I silently will her to keep talking, to keep saying those sorts of things about the Capitol, because right now, she has them all eating out of her hand.

"We have another version, back in Four. I think it's older than yours. It's definitely sadder. At the end, the Little Mermaid doesn't get legs…but she does get a choice. You see, the magic that turned her human was strong, and the sea witch who worked the magic was evil. In the end, the mermaid's prince marries another, and the Little Mermaid is doomed to die. Her sisters say that the witch can keep the Little Mermaid from dying, but that in return, she requires a living sacrifice. The Little Mermaid has to choose – she can lose her own life, or she can become a mermaid again, returning to the sea she yearns for and the family she misses desperately. But…"

"But?" Caesar Flickerman leans forward on the edge of his seat. Nearly everyone in the audience is unconsciously mimicking him.

"If she wants to live, she must kill the prince. This is the terrible price the witch demands – that the Little Mermaid murder the man who inspired her to become human in the first place, the man she loves above all else, even though he does not recognize her love for him, much less return her feelings."

Annie's eyes flicker over the crowd, somehow locking on me. I hold her burning gaze, unable to look away even if I wanted to.

"Late on her last night alive, the Little Mermaid, beside herself with grief and loneliness and the knowledge that she will never be loved, tiptoes into the prince's bedroom, a knife in her hand. She bends down –" Caesar Flickerman lets out a startled noise, interrupting Annie. He covers his mouth with his hand and motions her to continue.

"She bends down, and kisses her beloved one last time. As their lips meet, he smiles in his sleep…but the name he murmurs is not the Little Mermaid's, but his new bride's. The mermaid gave up her voice to be with him, so he never even learned her name, you see. Instead, he chose another woman for his wife, a human one, far more beautiful and worldly than the naïve Little Mermaid. With a final look at the man who would never be her lover, the Little Mermaid steels her courage and turns the knife on herself, plunging it deep into her broken heart. As she dies, she casts her body into the raging sea. The goddess of the ocean takes pity on the girl who would not kill another, not even to save her own life, and turns her into sea foam, so that she might wash up onto the prow of the prince's boat and kiss his lips with her salt tears for all of eternity."

Caesar sighs audibly, and the audience shifts in their seats, as if a spell has suddenly been lifted. I hear more than a few sniffles, and I'm pretty sure that some of the Capitol women are sobbing into their sleeves.

Johanna Mason scoffs under her breath, shaking her head and spinning one finger near her temple in the universal sign for "crazy." I pretend I don't see her trying to meet my eyes.

"What a lovely, tragic story, Annie!" Caesar exclaims, practically beside himself. "I'm sure when we see you on screen, we'll all remember you as the Little Mermaid dissolving into sea foam." Well, that's slightly better than "the girl who would not kill another, not even to save her own life." I was praying that wouldn't be the moral Caesar would take away from the story, but I shouldn't have worried – this is the Capitol, after all. Most people here wouldn't know a metaphor if it jumped up and bit them on the butt.

"Your stylist is an absolute genius."

Annie beams brightly. "Yes."

The green-skinned host glances at the digital clock projected on his personal screen. "We have time for a couple more questions, Annie. So how about telling us…" He leans forward a bit, and Annie copies him. "…are there any handsome princes in District Four?"

Annie looks perplexed. "No," she says, shaking her head. "The ancient institution of the monarchy was abolished long before Panem rose from the ashes of what was once North America."

She sounds like she is reciting from a textbook; in fact, she probably is. The crowd cracks up, and Caesar is clearly struggling to keep from joining them. "Boys, Annie. I mean boys."

"Oh. Well…yes, of course. There are boys in District Four."

Caesar grins. "Any _special_ boys?"

Annie sits up straight, her eyes dancing. "I'm sure their mothers tell all of them that they're special." The audience laughs uproariously, and Annie offers a tentative smile.

"Alright, then. Boys of District Four, you've got your work cut out for you."

A mischievous look crosses Caesar's face – a look that for some reason sets my nerves on edge. Isn't her time up yet? I feel like this interview has gone on for far too long already. What other questions could he possibly have for her?

"Okay, Annie, I have to ask…what's it like having the famous Finnick Odair for your mentor? Has he given you any of those private training sessions I hear he's so fond of?" Caesar wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, putting a finger to his lips to quiet the Capitol women, who let out a collective shriek at the sound of my name.

Oh, no. I stifle a groan. This is bad. This is really, really bad.

It takes Annie a while to answer. I can tell that she has no clue what Caesar meant by his innuendo-laden comment about "private training sessions." "I think…" she says at last, "people are multi-faceted."

"Mmm." Caesar nods non-committally and types something into his hand-held screen – most likely looking up the definition of "multi-faceted."

"Mr. Finnick…" Caesar arches an eyebrow. "I mean, Mr. Odair…he's not just the golden boy with the pretty emerald eyes and the fancy bronze hair. Here in the Capitol, you only see one side of him. And you can never truly know a person when you only see one side of them."

"I see." Caesar, and everyone else in the audience, is utterly engrossed. I want to hide my head or escape to the nearest dark closet, but Mags' hand poking me in the knee reminds me to smile like this is the most entertaining thing I have ever heard. I fight the urge to make a run for it and keep my ever-present smug mask firmly in place.

Multi-faceted, my ass.

"Can you tell us about these other sides of him?" Caesar asks.

Please, buzzer, go off. Please. Go off. Don't let her start talking about how awful I am. Don't let her tell them all how I got drunk last night and she had to clean up after me, how I scared her half to death over the ratty bracelet I always wear around my wrist, how I come in at all hours of the night and don't wake up until lunchtime, how none of the tributes could possibly have a worse mentor…

Annie looks directly at the cameras, her face serious, her posture composed. I brace myself. "Mr. Odair is the bravest person I know," she says. My jaw falls open. I catch sight of my stunned expression reflected back on a dozen television screens, and quickly shut my mouth again. "He's been through so much, but he doesn't show it, ever. He's smart and kind and funny, he takes the time to help his tributes, and he's always making jokes to cheer you up when you're…not up. When he's talking to you, you feel like the most important person in Panem, because he gives you his undivided attention. And no matter how small and insignificant you are, he'll notice you, and help you out. He…he saved me, once. I owe him my life."

And finally, the buzzer goes off.

No one in the audience claps. No one even moves. Everyone is still staring at Annie, waiting for her to say more – to let them in on the complex mystery that is Finnick Odair. I feel strangely removed from the whole thing, probably because I don't know who she had been talking about. That enigmatic, sensitive man she described certainly held no resemblance to me.

Finally, Caesar extends his hand to Annie, helping her up from the chair. "Don't you wish we had more time to find out exactly _how_ Finnick Odair saved Annie's life?" He shoots the audience a suggestive, significant look, and all around me, people holler their assent.

"Unfortunately, Annie's three minutes are up." He turns to Annie, leading her toward the stairs that will take her off the stage. "As for you, Little Mermaid…I think I'm not making much of an assumption when I say that everyone in this audience would like to see you up on this stage again in a few weeks. If only so you can finish telling us all about Finnick Odair's many facets."

The crowd cheers loudly, laughing and clapping and shouting. I hear my own name being chanted along with Annie's, and as much as I hate having even more attention on myself, I know this is the best possible scenario for her. Not many people will support Annie Cresta – though she may have won a few sponsors with her mermaid legend today. But everyone wants to please Finnick Odair.

Annie drifts down the stairs, lost in thought again and oblivious to the people screaming her name, and Curtis joins Caesar on the stage. As the crowd quiets down, settling in for more interviews, I stand up. Mags looks at me questioningly.

"I'm gonna go check on her," I explain.

Mags nods. Then she puts a hand on my arm, squeezing gently. "Right, you know."

"What? Who?"

"Annie. She's right. You are…bravest person."

I shake my head and wave away her compliment. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mags," I say, bending down to give the old woman a kiss on the cheek.

As I walk down the maintenance tunnel to the room where the tributes wait for their turn to be interviewed, Annie's completely unanticipated compliments play on repeat in my head.

"_Mr. Odair is the bravest person I know. He's been through so much, but he doesn't show it, ever. He's smart and kind and funny, he takes the time to help his tributes, and he's always making jokes to cheer you up when you're…not up. When he's talking to you, you feel like the most important person in Panem, because he gives you his undivided attention. And no matter how small and insignificant you are, he'll notice you, and help you out. He…he saved me, once. I owe him my life."_

I feel a strange splitting sensation in my cheeks. I reach up to my face, worried that one of my cuts has broken open, expecting my fingers to come away bloody. Instead, I realize something else…something so improbable that it seems impossible. Something that hasn't happened since before I was Reaped.

I am smiling.

Not smirking. Not grinning. Not grimacing, and not pouting sexily.

I am really, truly, genuinely smiling.

And it feels great.

* * *

**I got a great question about who I pictured as Finnick and Annie...this is actually something that I've been thinking about for a while, and I can't come up with any decisive answers yet. For Finnick, maybe Alexander Skarsgaard from True Blood, or Taylor Kitsch? I'm really not sure, though. All I know for certain is that they better choose someone who is a good actor and who looks like a grown man, not a little boy (sorry, Zac Efron...I know people think you'd be a good Finnick, but I don't see it. At all). I really have absolutely no ideas for Annie. I've heard that lots of people like the idea of Zooey Deschanel, but I don't see her as Annie. She's not a horrible actress, but she plays the same character in every movie, and does that quirky/cute thing a little too much. I see Annie as someone fragile and strange, shy (not quirky), with this incredible light inside her that draws Finnick despite himself.**

**Palepinkdaisy suggested Astrid Berges-Frisbey for Annie and Colton Haynes for Finnick. I could definitely get behind that. I like Astrid a lot, and I think casting someone who is not super well-known for Annie would be a great idea. I also have this idea that District Four has a lot of Irish heritage (it might be just because the names Odair, Annie, and Mags are all very Irish), so I thought they could cast unknown Irish actors. What do you all think? Any ideas?  
**


	10. Nothing Good about Goodbye

**Author's Note: Thanks so much for all the reviews, favorites, and alerts! I really appreciate it. I loved hearing everyone's ideas on the casting of Finnick and Annie. It's interesting to hear who other fans picture as the characters. I still don't own the Hunger Games...nor do I own the quote I used in this chapter (it's from Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie). Also, this will probably be my last post for the next week or so, because I have a family reunion that will keep me busy...but don't worry, I won't forget about this story! And hopefully when I return I'll have lots of updates for you all. Enjoy!**

* * *

I find Annie alone in a corner of the tributes' waiting room, twirling around and around in her mermaid dress, her skirt spinning out to reveal her tiny feet, which are encased in delicate blue high heels that look like they are made entirely of glass. The fabric that composes the tail of the gown flares out around Annie's heels in a cascade of blues and greens and sparkles.

The Careers, already sitting together and undoubtedly planning for the arena, are watching Annie with undisguised mirth, rolling their eyes at her and muttering amongst themselves. I abruptly wish she would stop spinning. It's making her look like a simple little girl again. And the Careers don't need another reason to see her as easy prey.

"Annie."

She stops twirling, stumbling in her heels and looking around the room dizzily until she locates me. I suddenly wonder what I am going to say to her. Why did I come down here, exactly?

The eyes of every tribute in the room turn to me. But I'm certainly no stranger to being ogled at.

"Hi!" Annie laughs nervously and wobbles on her heels as she walks over to me. Her cheeks are flushed from so much turning. When she comes closer, I can't help but notice how the sea-colored dress makes her eyes shine brighter than all the Capitol's neon lights.

'Hey, mermaid. Good job."

"Really?" She does not meet my gaze, staring at the ground and chewing on her lower lip in a way that really, really bothers me. I wish my heart would stop trying to sporadically jump out of my chest. Maybe I'm developing hyperactivity or something.

"Really. You did great, Annie. They love you."

I want to swallow the words the instant they come out of my mouth. Both of us know that love and the Capitol do not coexist. Annie shakes her head. "No," she tells me, her voice low. "They love _you_."

No, they lust after me – but I decide not to explain the difference to Annie. I'm not starting such an incredibly awkward conversation the night before she goes into the arena.

Annie's big eyes dim noticeably, narrowing anxiously as she notices the Career clique whispering together.

"Come on," I tell her, taking her by the elbow and leading her towards the exit. "Let's go back. You need to rest."

She balks when I touch her, but allows me to guide her out of the room.

Far before Mags and Curtis return in the wake of an exuberant Lydia Frill and the District Four preps and stylists, Annie and I are back in the conference room on the fourth floor, drinking hot chocolate and watching the flickering lights of the Capitol pulse and shine outside the window.

I am incredibly hungry, and I down my drink in two large gulps. Annie sips hers daintily, but still manages to get chocolate on the tip of her nose. I've never seen anything more adorable.

I lick my finger and lean in. "Annie, you've got –" She looks confused as I wipe the chocolate off, then pulls away, flushing in embarrassment.

"Oh. S-sorry." She swipes at her face, smearing the makeup around her eyes.

"Annie, it's okay." I notice that her hands are trembling so violently that she is in danger of dropping her mug on the floor. I reach over and take the drink from her, setting it down safely out of the way. "Settle down, Annie. Please." What is she so afraid of? And then a terrible thought hits me. "I'm not going to hurt you, Annie. It's alright."

She looks at me for a long time, finally nodding slowly. I can only hope she truly believes me.

"I…I missed it." Her voice is indescribably sad as she stares out the huge glass window.

"What? What did you miss? The Games don't start until tomorrow –"

"No. The sunset. I missed…my last sunset."

My throat tightens. I know exactly how she feels. I can recall all too well the awful finality of everything I experienced at this point before my Games – the dreadful knowledge that each insignificant daily event could be my last. Last shower, last decent meal, last night's sleep in a warm bed, last sunrise. Last sunset.

"Don't think that way. Think like a victor. You'll have lots more sunsets, when you come back from the Games. Right?"

She shudders and picks at the sequins on the hem of her dress. I realize that it's not me she is scared of. At least not right now. She has far more dreadful fears to haunt her dreams tonight.

I am abruptly filled with a desperate feeling of panic, not unlike the one that seized me the night before my own blood-soaked Hunger Games debut. I lean forward, my eyes boring into the girl's ducked head, urging her to listen to me. "You've got to fight, Annie. No more mermaid stories. You can't refuse to kill. There are no rules in the arena. It's nothing but a battle for survival. And if you don't go in there thinking of yourself and only yourself –"

A tremor runs through her small body, and Annie grows very, very still. And then the door burst open and the rest of our team enters, leaving the rest of our conversation hanging in the dismal air, forever unsaid.

Lydia finishes gushing over Curtis, then spends the next twenty minutes praising me, as though I was a tribute who just gave an interview. Mags pulls Annie into a hug and tugs on her hair. Annie manages to return the old woman's affection with a half-hearted grin, then spends the rest of the evening sitting quietly on the couch close to Cinna, helping him shred a spool of lace and eating all the green candies out of a bowl of sweets, while the rest of the preps and stylists toast to their own (somewhat questionable, in my not-so-humble opinion) talents.

Finally, Mags breaks up the impromptu party with a gentle yet decisive, "Time to sleep." Curtis and Annie stand up instantly. Both of them manage to look simultaneously relieved and distraught – though Curtis does a much better job of hiding his nerves beneath his wicked smile.

Cinna gets up, too. "I'll help you with your dress, little Annie."

Annie shakes her head, fingering the soft fabric. "Can I…wear it, still?" She smiles uncertainly at Cinna. In the dim light, his gold eyeliner makes his pupils gleam like a cat's.

"Of course. I'll get it from you tomorrow."

He holds out his arms to her, and she runs into them. She seems relieved when he tells her that he'll be with her up until she gets into the launch tube that will take her up to the arena. Mags pats Annie on the back while the girl stammers out a rather incomprehensible thank-you. Curtis, apparently bored by all the tearful goodbyes, stretches loudly, popping the joints in his arms.

"See you after the bloodbath, Crazy," he tells Annie, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "If you make it 'til then."

Annie trips over the skirts of her gown in her rush to get as far away from Curtis as she can. Face pale and mouth drawn tightly, she practically flies down the hall and into her room.

Eventually I drift away from the others and head to my own quarters, for once not having any clients to service. I try not to be offended by the fact that Annie didn't say goodbye to me – after all, I was a tribute once, too, and I know the amount of stress she is under right now. But I spend the whole night tossing and turning in bed, unable to drift off to sleep.

It is half past four when I sit up, pull on a pair of faded grey sweatpants that Grommett would burn if ever he laid eyes on them, and decisively slip the rope bracelet off my wrist.

I open the door – and let out a weird sort of strangled cry, surprised to find Annie standing directly on the other side, her hand raised to knock.

She starts, and for a minute, we both stare at each other – two pairs of sleepless eyes meeting in the pre-Games darkness. "God, Annie," I say, trying to cover up my shock. "What are you doing here?"

"I…I just…" She starts mumbling, but I can't tell if it is because she is exhausted, or because she is anxious, or maybe even because I forgot to put on a shirt. Again.

I take in her rumpled mermaid dress, her tired eyes, her messy hair. "Couldn't sleep?"

She nods wearily.

"Well, come on then. You need to try to get some rest."

I lead her back to the fountain room that she seemed to enjoy before, thinking that at least the enormous glass windows there will let her get a good view of the morning sunrise, and she practically collapses onto a bench. I sit down beside her, breathing in the fragrant scent of flowers and earth that fills the small garden.

Annie watches the fountain tumble down into the little pool below. "Mr. Finnick?" she asks me.

"Yes?"

"You aren't asleep."

"No." I give her a small smile. "Neither are you."

"I was doing things." She holds out a sealed envelope with the name "Cinna" written across the front in a precise flourish. "Can you give this to Cinna, Mr. Finnick? When…when it's clear that I'm…you know. Not coming back?"

I take the envelope and put it in my pocket. I don't trust myself to speak. I'm afraid I'll start yelling, or demand to know why she didn't write me a letter, too. And the last thing she needs right now is to feel guilty about bruising Finnick Odair's abnormally large ego.

"Mr. Finnick?" Annie is looking up at me. Her face is clean, natural, washed of the makeup she was wearing earlier. I think she looks better this way. More like herself. "This…this is for…f-for you." She gnaws her bottom lip as she holds out a thin package wrapped in tissue paper. "I…I just want to thank you. For all the training, and for being my mentor, and for buying my f-flowers, and…and being nice to me. So…thank you." She looks down at her bare feet and falls silent.

I still don't trust myself to speak. I feel my throat threatening to close up again as I take the gift and carefully open it.

Annie has made me a bookmark – a pretty, delicate rectangle decorated with scraps of lace and silky ribbons, pressed flowers (but no roses) and shapes cut out of artistically folded paper. On the back, written in her careful, flowing script, are the words:

"Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting." ~_Peter Pan _

I finally tear my gaze away from the gift, realizing that Annie must be waiting for me to respond. My mother would be mortified at my rudeness. If she were alive to reprimand me, that is. "Thank you." My voice comes out unnaturally rough. "This is beautiful."

Annie blushes and shakes her head. "It's not very much –"

"It's perfect." I run my fingers over the lace edges of the bookmark. I can't remember the last time someone gave me a real gift. Not payment for services rendered, not a secret in exchange for the use of my body, but a present, pure and simple, with no strings attached. She has no idea how beautiful this bookmark is to me.

"Annie, do you have a District token?" I'm pretty sure I already know the answer, even before she shakes her head to confirm it. "Here, mermaid. Will you wear this in the arena? For me?" I hold out my bracelet, and she looks – well, surprised does not even begin to describe it.

"But…but…your mother…" she stammers, confused.

"My mother would want you to have it. _I_ want you to have it. Please."

She nods and allows me to tie the bracelet around her wrist. I am once again struck by just how tiny her hands are. No one this small should be anywhere near the Hunger Games.

"There," I say, pulling the knot tight. "It won't fall off."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Finnick!" She runs her fingers over the well-worn rope, inordinately pleased. "I've never had any jewelry before…Now I really am just like the mermaid princess!"

"Annie…" But I don't know what I want to say. I realize that my hand is tingling, and I look down to find that I am still holding Annie's hand tightly in my own. "Annie, I…" Her huge eyes blink up at me, curious, waiting for me to continue. But I can't.

And the rising sun streaming through the windows reminds me that I don't have any more time to waste.

I reach out and enfold Annie in my arms, pulling her little body flush against mine, stroking her back and breathing in the salty sea smell of her skin. For a moment, she is stiff as stone, but then she relaxes, melting into me and bringing both her arms around my neck, clinging to me as though her life depends on it, her head coming to rest against my bare chest, infusing my entire body with her incredible warmth. We remain wrapped up in each other, not speaking, barely even breathing, Annie memorizing the sunrise and me memorizing the comforting feel of her, until Cinna announces his presence by subtly clearing his throat.

I slowly untangle us, brush a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes, and reluctantly tell her that it is time for her to go. I watch her carefully, ready to wipe away any falling tears, but though her eyes shimmer, she does not cry. "Maybe…" she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Maybe…it's okay. I'll see you again. In h-heaven."

I decide not to remind her that even if there is a heaven, it's the last place I'm going to end up, after everything I've done. Instead, I take both her hands in mine and squeeze them tightly. "I'll never forget you, Annie. Never."

I give her one last brief hug before Cinna leads her away.

I am still clutching the bookmark when I head up to the mentor's control room a few hours later, almost entirely oblivious to everything but the crisp, silky paper in my hand and the icy coldness that has chilled my body since Annie was torn out of my arms.

I snap to attention only when the screen in front of me flickers to life, revealing twenty-four tributes arranged in a circle around the Cornucopia, and the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith rings out in the sudden silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the 70th Hunger Games begin!"


	11. Whore

**Author's Note: The next chapter...finally. The insanity of the family reunion has finally died down, and I decided this was a better way to relax than to send out more job applications. "Relax" being a relative term...because this chapter is sort of traumatic, as I realized while writing it. It's rated M for a reason, guys! I just want to thank all my awesome readers and reviewers, as always. **

**And I did get a good question about the ages of Finnick and Annie in my story. This is 5 years after Finnick's Games, and he won when he was 14 (I guess 14-almost-15 in this story), so he is barely 20 at this point. (I'm working on the assumption that the Reaping is always on a weekend or something, and that it isn't on the same exact day every year, since if the Games go for longer, there would still have to be 12 months in between each Games. If that makes sense.) And Annie is 17. She'll turn 18 later on in the story. Finnick isn't actually aware of how old she is - he thinks she is younger because in his mind, she is so sweet and innocent and everything that he will never be. He's really not all that much older than her - it just seems like he is, because he had to grow up so fast.**

**That's all I've got right now, so without further ado...enjoy!  
**

* * *

I am in hell.

I stare at the monitors in the console in front of me, ignoring the stinging of my tired eyes. I haven't slept for three days now – or has it been four? I will my drooping eyelids to stay open, taking yet another gulp of the coffee that is always my main form of sustenance during the Games. The taste – bitter grounds tempered by a generous heap of sugar cubes – helps to soothe the pounding of my head.

When I was Reaped five years ago, I thought that nothing could possibly be worse. Then I went into the arena.

When I emerged victorious, I thought it was all over. I had played their games; I had won their Games. Nothing more could hurt me. But then President Snow told me what I now realize he had planned for my future from the day I first set foot in the Capitol and unwittingly caused such an unprecedented sensation with my winks and my smiles.

That first time – I've tried to wipe it from my memory, but who doesn't remember losing his virginity, especially to a powerful Capitol woman a good decade his senior? – I'd laughed about the whole thing afterwards, acted arrogant and sexy and everything else they wanted me to be, bragged about the way I expertly seduced such a wealthy, important, outrageously chesty woman. (I naively believed that I truly had; it was not until much later that Snow informed me he was charging money for my services). I boasted about my many subsequent conquests – both forced and voluntary – too, to anyone and everyone who wanted to listen, until "Finnick Odair" became synonymous with "playboy" not only in the decadent Capitol, but in the starving, impoverished Districts as well.

I guess a part of me thought it would just be a temporary thing, or that it wouldn't be all that bad – after all, what sixteen-year-old boy doesn't fantasize about exactly what I had the chance to do every single day? Sex, kinky sex, and even kinkier sex, sex with eager teenage girls and experienced older women, virgins and Capitol sluts, handcuffs and costumes and enhancements and toys, sex for the sake of sex and nothing more, sex with no strings attached.

Except there were strings – strings that led from my dick to everyone I had ever loved. I didn't realize just how serious President Snow's little game was until the night he first sent me to a man's bedroom. Startled and utterly disgusted, I panicked, refused, left as quickly as possible. Not a week later, my mother was dead. (The official report said that she had died of fish poisoning, but my mother knew better than to serve contaminated seafood, and the rest of my family had eaten the same fish that night and displayed no negative reactions. It didn't take me long to realize that it wasn't a fish that had poisoned her, but a snake).

So I did what – and who – Snow wanted me to, and more, going above and beyond my given duties to both convince the president that I was fine with my Capitol-assigned role and to attempt to fill, or at least ignore, the gnawing emptiness that threatened to consume me whenever I found myself alone in my enormous, satin-sheeted bed. I figured that if I embraced who I had become – frivolous, cocky, carefree, lascivious, and all the rest – then they couldn't hurt me anymore.

But I was wrong. Because nothing I have ever experienced – not the arena, not the nightmares and drunken nights afterwards, not even the sadistic whims of some of the more violent men I have serviced over the years – compares to the agony of sitting here and staring at the screen in front of me, watching little Annie Cresta die and knowing I am powerless to help her.

The bloodbath was horrific this year – over half the tributes died in the battle for the weapons and provisions that they hoped were stashed in the Cornucopia. The survivors found weapons, of a sort – a variety of stone clubs and primitive maces, for the most part – but not a single bite of food, drop of water, or roll of bandages. The only good thing about the bloodbath was that neither of Four's tributes was killed in it. Curtis participated with a gleeful enthusiasm that earned him even more sponsors than he already had, and Annie sprinted away from the golden horn the instant the buzzer rang, hiding in the rocky slopes and keeping a good distance from all the other remaining tributes.

She managed to survive this far by weaving vines into makeshift nets, catching fish from a stream, and eating them raw. No one wanted to sponsor her (though more than enough people have been more than willing to send Curtis everything from bread and matches to blankets and chocolate bars), so I had no supplies to send her, no sponsor gifts to float down to her shadowed little hiding spots in silver parachutes and bring the faint ghost of a smile to her dirty, blood-streaked face.

I'm not sure how to describe what I have been feeling lately – genuine emotions are now as foreign to me as the sound of the waves beating against the beaches back home – but I know that something in me breaks a little more each moment I watch Annie shivering and alone, clutching herself in a futile attempt to stay warm, her small body half-frozen and wracked with chills. Her forehead is still leaking blood from her run-in with the male tribute from District 7 – the much-larger boy had tackled her and bludgeoned the side of her head with a rock before she rolled away, lashing out with a surprisingly strong kick fueled by fear and desperation, and quite accidentally sending him tumbling into a hidden sinkhole full of quicksand. Of course, Annie desperately tried to save him, but he refused the branch she held out to him, choosing death rather than the humiliation of owing his life to the very girl he had attempted to kill. Ever since his slow death yesterday afternoon, Annie has been hiding in a cave so small that none of the other tributes could possibly fit inside it, eating nothing, drinking nothing, doing nothing, just rocking back and forth with her hands over her ears and muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "Murderer." She finally stops talking as night deepens around her, cold and dark and black, her teeth chattering too much to form words, her body shaking with the onslaught of midnight's lethal chill.

I slam my fist into the table, earning confused looks from many of the other mentors and an icy glare from Johanna. I swear, not really under my breath. Why won't some Capitol idiot donate enough money to let me send her a damn blanket?

"Finnick. Go…room." Mags puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. I shrug her off. I'm not a little boy who needs to take a time-out. "Finnick," she continues, because Mags is nothing if not persistent. "Need sleep. I watch her."

"Fine." I don't want to argue with the old woman, and besides, she's right. I do need to sleep, if I am to be of any use to Annie at all. I know the girl won't die tonight. She's freezing and bleeding, to be sure, but her vital signs are still beeping strong on the monitor, and there's a stubborn part of her that is hanging on to life with both hands. Still, I keep the TV on when I get to my room, not wanting to miss anything that could make the difference between Annie's life and her death.

I am considerably more rested when I wake up. It is after noon, and I am famished, so I order breakfast and eat it in bed, half-watching the Career pack trying to cook over an open fire on the television screen as I scheme up ways to help Annie. If only mentors were allowed to use their own money to sponsor tributes. I have enough victor winnings to buy her a hovercraft flight out of the arena.

I drop my croissant as the camera pans left, revealing Annie, who is now hiding in a tall tree directly above the place where Curtis sits, warming himself by the fire. The powerful Career boy is entirely oblivious to the significant looks his teammates are shooting each other over his head. Apparently, they've decided that the hulk of a tribute has outlived his usefulness. The screen shifts to show close-ups of the other tributes, and I immediately know why. Only six remain, and three of those are Careers. Curtis, the boy from Two, and the girl from One. Two others – the tributes from Eight – have formed a team, but from their constant squabbling, the alliance seems temporary at best. And then there is Annie- never seen as a contender by anyone, forgotten even by the other tributes, and about as threatening as a butterfly.

It happens quicker than I expect. In a flash, the girl from One has a knife at Curtis's throat, and the boy from Two is holding the huge Career up against the trunk of Annie's tree, a blood-stained axe in one clenched fist. The two partners spit out threats as Curtis struggles. He is strong, and almost manages to break free of his attackers, but the Career from Two is just as massive, and he and the girl have the element of surprise on their side.

Curtis does not die gracefully. He shouts, screams, wails like a little girl, begs and pleads in ways that make me cringe (and cause him to lose sponsors by the second). "Help, help, please, help me!" he cries, looking around plaintively, directing his pleas to the fire, the hard-packed ground, the dark leafy canopy above. But there is no one to hear him. No one, except for Annie.

"Annie, help me!" he screams in desperation. The leaves shake imperceptibly, and Annie's face appears, wan and thin and terror-stricken. I'm not sure if Curtis knew Annie was perched in the branches above or if he simply resorted to the name of his fellow tribute from Four in a last bleak attempt to save his own pathetic life.

"Mermaid, no," I whisper, silently urging Annie to stay hidden. She owes Curtis nothing. She has no reason to help him. And when he dies, she'll be that much closer to coming home.

But Annie leaps down from her limb, landing on the Career girl's shoulders and wresting the knife from the larger girl's hands. The Career boy looks furious; the girl actually looks scared. Curtis just looks stunned – at least, he does until the boy from Two swings his axe angrily, cutting halfway through Curtis's head. Blood spurts from the tribute's neck, drenching Annie, who runs at the boy from Two, seizing his elbows and trying to yank him away from Curtis. He shakes her off easily, sending her flying into the embers of the dying fire. She scrambles up, slapping at the flames that catch her clothes, but by the time she makes it back to Curtis, the boy from Two is standing over him again, chopping at his head over and over. It takes seven strokes to completely detach it from his body.

I hear terrified, excited shouts from the rooms around me and know that Curtis's death will be one of the so-called "high points" of the Games this year.

And then I hear another sound – a keening, inhuman shrieking like the wail of a mythical sea spirit. My hair stands on end, goose bumps rise on my arms, and I inadvertently shiver as I realize just where the alien sound is coming from. On the screen, Annie is gaping, wide-eyed and motionless, at Curtis's severed head and screaming wordlessly, her high-pitched, animalistic cries freezing the two hardened Careers in their places.

But it is not her screams that have me petrified. It is the nonexistent expression in her vacant, dead eyes. Annie keeps staring at what was once Curtis, watching his neck drip blood onto the ground, oblivious to the danger the two other tributes pose.

When the girl from One breaks free of whatever eerie spell Annie's wails had put her under, she yanks her knife back from Annie and stabs the small girl over and over – in the stomach, the legs, the shoulder, the chest. Annie does not seem to notice. The Career boy grips his battle-axe again, tightening his hold on the handle, and my whole body stiffens. This can't be happening. It _can't_. Annie can't die. She has to come home. She has to come back to me.

"Run Annie, damn you, run!"

Almost as if she somehow heard me from countless miles away in the arena, Annie's eyes grow even bigger, and she leaps away from the Career boy's lethal swing and takes off into the rocky, mountainous terrain again, so quickly that neither Career has the chance to grab her. The cameras follow her noisy flight as she stumbles up a steep cliff and wedges herself into a narrow crevice, leaving a trail of haunting screams and slick blood in her wake.

Curtis's is the only face projected into the sky at dusk. The cameras linger on Annie, curled up on the cold ground, her hands alternately pressed over her ears or shoved into her mouth. Her hair is matted, her eyes wild and unseeing, her ragged clothes melted into her raw flesh where the fire burned her, and she claws viciously at her own skin, muttering incomprehensible things. I feel like punching the TV screen. Why won't they show someone else? Surely the Gamemakers know what this looks like to the audience – a collapse, a breakdown, a sudden descent into complete and utter madness. And I know that's exactly why they are suddenly focusing so intently on Anna-Marie Cresta.

The girl grasps at her wounded side, and her hands come away covered in thick, sticky blood. She looks at the red fluid almost uncomprehendingly, then turns her lost, desperate gaze to the sky. Her mouth trembles as she struggles to form two soundless words, more a plea than a name. She stammers it multiple times before I can make out what she is trying to say. "Mr. Finnick."

My gut wrenches. I slam a fist into the television, effectively shutting it off, unable to stand any more of her terrified agony. I ignore my bleeding knuckles, yank on some clothes, and rush to the door, not sure what I am going to do, knowing I have to do something.

Cinna meets me halfway down the hall. He has an envelope in his hand, and he looks as exhausted as I suddenly feel. I have to admit, I'd completely forgotten about him. "This is for you," he says by way of greeting, handing me the envelope. My name is written on it in Annie's graceful, unmistakable script: For Mr. Finnick. "She said to give it to you, when…when she was dying."

"She's _not_ dying." My voice comes out so cracked and weak that Cinna gives me a weird look. "She won't…she can't…"

"Are you blind?" he retorts, his normally mild tone biting. "What is she to you anyways, Odair?" I am not imagining the accusation in his voice.

I shake my head, well aware of the numerous pairs of bleary, curious eyes on us here. We need to talk somewhere private, where we will not be overheard. Where the Capitol's bugs and cameras and spies cannot reach us. I know of only one such place nearby.

I wink at Cinna flirtatiously and step close to him, wrapping my arms around his narrow chest and pulling him into me. "Just go with it," I whisper in his ear as he begins to freeze, hoping that he'll understand.

Apparently he does, because he allows me to lead him back to my room, our bodies pressed tightly together. "Come on, baby, tell me all about it," I breathe as we tumble inside.

I shut the door behind us, and Cinna instantly jumps six feet away from me. Apparently I am as repellant to him as I am to Annie.

"What the hell was this about, Odair?"

"What do you think?" I shoot back. "We need to talk – and besides, I thought you might want some privacy, to read this." I grab Annie's letter to Cinna off my dresser and give it to him. "My room's not bugged."

"Oh, really?" He gives me a curious look.

I nod. "It was part of…a deal I made. With Snow." Cinna seems like he is going to ask more questions. "Just read your damn letter."

He does. I notice that his eyes are welling up, and his golden eyeliner is beginning to smudge, so I turn away to give him some space. I busy myself with straightening up my dresser, putting Annie's letter to me in prime of place atop a pile of unread books in the center.

"You're not going to read it?" Cinna's voice, faintly hoarse, startles me out of my frenetic thoughts.

I shake my head decisively. "No need to. She's not dead. She's not dying. She's _not_…"

Cinna's face softens. "You really do care about her, don't you?"

"How can you even ask me that? I'm her mentor. It's my _job_ to care about her. It's my job to protect her, to do anything in my power to –" I stop suddenly as an idea hits me. It is not a pleasant idea; in fact, it is absolutely repulsive. But I think it could work. It _has_ to work. Because I am running out of options. And Annie is running out of time.

"Finnick?"

"I can save her." I meet Cinna's confused gaze with my own fiercely determined one. "I can bring her home."

"How?"

"It's what Beetee was saying, at the chariot parade. Structural instability."

Cinna at least has the sense to remain quiet. I hurry him out of my room, not even bothering to say goodbye as I rush to the mentor's station. Thankfully, Beetee is still there, even though both his tributes have long since died. I grab him and ask – okay, more like demand – my questions.

Mags watches me from her seat, her wrinkled face a picture of worry and concern. As soon as I finish speaking to Beetee, she is at my side, pulling me back out the door. My mind is so full of equations and broken dams and what-ifs and eventualities that I don't really notice where we are going until I find myself in a janitor's closet, wedged in amongst brooms and mops and buckets.

"Finnick. Son, what…doing?" Mags' knowing eyes do not accuse. They are full of sadness, which is a hundred times worse.

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

"That's…what afraid of. How will you…"

I lower my eyes, afraid that my cheeks are turning red. "Mags, I'm a whore. I might as well make the most of that."

"Finnick," Mags repeats. "You said…never sell yourself, never voluntarily. Not like this. _Promised_ yourself. Not like this."

"Yeah, well. Sometimes you have to break promises." I shove past her, angry. A bottle of some sort of cleaning solution falls and hits me on the head.

Mags puts a hand on my upper arm, stopping me from leaving. "This for…An-nie?"

I glare at her. "I don't want to talk about it." I push the closet door open and head back to my room. I can't worry about what Mags thinks right now, and I certainly don't need her to tell me how sweet little Annie would be completely disgusted by me if she found out what I was about to do.

As I dress, deliberately choosing clothes that cling suggestively to my well-muscled body, I turn on the TV (someone has already replaced the broken screen) and am assaulted with image after image of Annie. Her stab wounds have mostly stopped bleeding, but her arms and face and neck are scratched raw, and she has bit all the way through her lower lip. Her whole body is shivering again, her face is pale and drawn, and her eyes – her eyes are terrifyingly empty, flittering from rocks to trees to ground to sky, never once seeming to recognize where she is. She looks so far beyond confused that I can't entirely fault the insensitive commentators who are calling her crazy. I grab a handful of condoms from a jar and stuff them in my pocket as I watch Annie cover her ears with her hands again, stifling the nonexistent noises that only she can hear. She looks so fearful, so helpless, so bewildered and lost and terror-stricken, that I know I am doing the right thing for once in my miserable, worthless excuse for a life, no matter what Mags or anyone else has to say about it. I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and head out onto the bustling streets of the Capitol.

Not twenty minutes later, I knock on the heavy door to the penthouse suite occupied by the new Head Gamemaker. His wife, a bony thing with violently violet hair, ushers me inside, her disturbingly cat-like eyes running up and down my barely-clothed form. "The famous Finnick Odair," she purrs. "How kind of you to grace us with your presence. What can I do for you tonight?"

I don't miss the slightly veiled hint in her words, but decide to pretend that I did. Instead, I ask to speak to her husband, and she rather reluctantly shows me the way to his home office.

Seneca Crane looks up from the numerous touchscreens and colorful flashing buttons that surround him, a decidedly interested gleam lighting up his eyes. "Finnick?"

"Mr. Crane." I keep my voice polite and slightly submissive – men like him get off on the illusion of their own power.

He laughs. "Please, dear boy, call me Seneca."

"Seneca it is, then." I incline my head in a lazy nod. "I was hoping you'd be home." I meet his eyes and let my tongue dart out to expertly wet my bottom lip. Seneca sucks in his breath, and his gaze flits down to the thin fabric covering my crotch. Classy.

"Thank you, honey. That will be all," he tells his wife, clearly dismissing her.

"If you need some drinks or anything –" she begins, her eyes never leaving my body.

"We'll be fine," her husband cuts her off. His voice is sharp and decisive –the well-oiled tones of a Head Gamemaker accustomed to being obeyed. With a resigned flip of her hair, Seneca's wife leaves the study, closing the door behind her.

So far, so good. Now I just have to pull off the rest of this.

I let the pout I am so widely known for cross my face as I look at Seneca Crane. I have to admit, it takes a good deal of concentrated effort not to laugh at the wild design of his facial hair – but then I think of Annie, confused and cold and impossibly alone, and suddenly, all the humor has vanished from the situation.

"Finnick." Seneca leers my name, and I have to repress a shudder of disgust. "Sit, please." He motions to a chair, and I fall into it, sprawling my body across the seat as if I don't have a care in the world. "I'm so glad you finally decided to visit. After that night we last talked, I must confess, I was beginning to wonder…" He shakes his head and runs his impossibly skinny fingers through his goatee. "But no matter. You're here now. So tell me, how are you enjoying my Games so far?"

Perfect. I take advantage of the opening, rolling my eyes and continuing to pout boyishly. "Honestly? I'm bored out of my mind." I deliberately pitch my voice higher, so I sound like a petulant child begging to be entertained.

"Are you? Well, we can't have that, can we? Maybe I can help." Seneca walks over to me, slowly, his eyes searching my own. Apparently he finds the answer he was looking for, because he pushes my legs apart with his knee, grips my hair in his hand, and practically pulls my face to his for a long, rough kiss. We don't exchange many coherent words after that. It doesn't take long for him to undress us both, his hands roving across my skin as he presses me down onto the hard surface of his desk in an attempt to keep me from being too bored.

Only in the Capitol, I think wryly as Seneca thrusts into me, his groans coming louder and louder. My forehead bangs against the sharp corner of the desk, but the Gamemaker doesn't notice. He increases his urgent pace as he nears his release, mumbling as he kisses down my neck, wetly and sloppily. "Tell me to fuck you," he half-orders, half-moans.

I think it's a bit late for that, but I comply. "Fuck me," I say quietly but clearly, careful to keep the contempt out of my voice. "God, Seneca, fuck –"

He lets out a strangled exhalation as he finishes, gripping my ass so hard I swear he leaves permanent finger marks.

When it is over, he slumps to the ground, spent and satisfied. I follow his lead. He indolently fingers my hair, my nipples, my manhood, his manner smug and proprietary. I remain still, my smirking mask covering the feelings I can't even think about right now. I wish he would take his hands off me. "Still bored?" the Gamemaker asks, a twitchy little grin creeping across his face from underneath the tentacles of his strangely styled beard.

I chuckle, low in my throat, and favor him with my thousand-watt movie star smile. "That was way better than the Games."

"Good." He stands up, rolls his condom down off his now-slack penis, and fastidiously ties it off before placing it in the trash receptacle beneath the desk. Then he goes to a little icebox in the corner, and mixes two gin-and-tonics. I take the opportunity to pull my pants back on. The last thing I want is for him to decide he needs to reciprocate the favor I just did for him.

We sit back down, sweaty thighs touching, and sip our drinks in silence. I jump when one of the screens on Seneca's console starts to beep incessantly, and he laughs. It is a rather disturbing sound, more like a phlegmatic gurgle than genuine laughter. "You're just about the only person who could distract me from the Games today."

I grin arrogantly. "I _am_ rather distracting." I take another swig of my drink before continuing. "But it's not like anything good's happened since the bloodbath."

"And how exactly would you propose to remedy that?" Seneca's tone is patronizing, like I am a little boy with no understanding of the complex adult world.

I go with it, shrugging as though I haven't been trying to think up ways to get Annie out of the arena for most of the last week and putting my hand on Seneca's thigh, dangerously close to his groin, as though I can't bear for him to stand up and go over to the screens he is supposed to be monitoring. I really am an incredible actor. They should give me an award one of these days. "I don't know." I pause, as if thinking, then let my eyes widen and light up in faux excitement. "Something cool, that really sends the tributes running – a natural disaster, or something. Like…like an earthquake! Wouldn't that be awesome?"

"It sure would." Seneca smiles his limp, thin-lipped grin at me again, the way a grown-up smiles indulgently at a particularly amusing child, but the lust pooling in his eyes as he gazes at my still-bare washboard chest tells me that he certainly sees me as a man, at least in all the ways that matter in the Capitol.

His console chimes again, and he goes over to speak to whoever is on the other end. I sigh in a show of reluctance as I tell him that I had better get back to work too, then wrap my arms around him by way of farewell, taking my time, stroking his bony butt as though I have never before laid my hands on anything so captivating. He gives me another wet, lingering kiss as I leave. I am not even out of his study yet when he presses a series of buttons and makes another call, his thin voice commanding as he orders the Gamemakers to shake the arena with an earthquake. I exit the penthouse suite without a backward glance, trying not to look too smug.

By the time I make it back to the mentor's room fifteen minutes later, I'm decidedly less smug-looking. Shirtless and aching and bow-legged, I push open the door and enter what looks like a war zone. Mentors are panicking, hastily jabbing at buttons on their screens, yelling at tributes who have no possible chance of hearing them. The giant screen at the front of the room shows the last few minutes on replay – an earthquake rocking the arena, the dam at the far end breaking open just as Beetee assured me it would, a rising wave of endless water flooding the entire complex. Tributes screaming, struggling, drowning, dying. I finally catch a glimpse of Annie – she looks stunned and uncomprehending, like she has no idea where she is or why the water keeps rising around her. I see her stick out her tongue to taste the liquid, as if she needs to confirm that it is, in fact, water. And then she starts swimming, almost mechanically, her body still clinging to survival even when her mind has long since given up. I hurry over to my mentor console, my legs as sore as if I had just ran a marathon, and stumble into my seat.

Mags' sad, silent gaze regards me from the chair beside me. I know she is taking in my bare chest, my too-tight leather pants, my rumpled hair, the jagged cut on my forehead from the corner of the desk. I know what she is seeing. She is finally seeing precisely what I am.

But all she says is "Finnick…," her voice soft and mothering, and all she does is squeeze my shoulder and make me a cup of coffee.

Cashmere and Gloss, the brother-sister mentors from One, swear in unison as their remaining tribute girl, who has been struggling in vain to swim, is pulled under the murky, churning water. She does not resurface. A few moments later, the cannon fires, signifying her demise.

There is chaos in the mentor's room, chaos in the adjoin Gamemakers' control booth. I dimly note that Seneca Crane has put on some clothes and managed to make an appearance. He stands, white-clad and flush-faced, in the center of the white room, directing Gamemakers and jabbing at touchscreens, his demanding, reedy voice not audible from where I sit.

"Damn you, Odair. You and that crazy bitch." Brutus, the mentor from Two, is glaring at me. I flip him off, then turn to my screen, noting with shock that the only three tributes left are the fierce Career boy from Two, the girl from Eight (who is currently being unceremoniously dashed to pieces against the high concrete wall of the dam), and Annie. Not ten seconds later, the cannon fires yet again, and a hovercraft bears down on the still form of District Eight before she can sink into the depths of the water forever.

Annie jerks around at the sound, her eyes darting everywhere all at once. For one brief, horrific moment, she covers her ears, and I think she is going to go under, but then the waves tug at her, and she keeps swimming. She's a strong swimmer, strong even for a tribute from District Four, and I know my gamble paid off. I know has a chance. White-peaked waves crest over her, but she always reappears, swimming on and on. She hits her head on jagged, unseen rocks below the water, gets tangled in half-sunken tree limbs, is buffeted by loose metal sheeting and heavy maces and everything else that was swept away by the flood, but she keeps swimming. She keeps swimming.

She swims for twenty-two hours. And for twenty-two hours, I remain glued to my mentor station, whispering words of encouragement that I know she can't hear and urging the District Two boy to just let go of the sturdy branch he has managed to get hold of and die already.

But he doesn't. Instead, he catches sight of Annie as she floats by, treading water with shaking limbs, her hair plastered to her face, her lips blue, her skin a colorless, icy white that terrifies me. The boy from Two lets go of the tree and launches himself towards her through the water. I don't understand what he is doing until I see the broken tip of the spear clutched tightly in his hand.

He is on Annie before I finish shouting at her image on my screen.

"Annie!" I punch through the sponsor gifts on the computer console, but nothing will help her, and I have no money to purchase so much as a cracker, anyways. Annie has no sponsors. No one but Seneca Crane, and him unknowingly.

The Career boy digs the spear deep into Annie's side, so deep he cannot wrench it out again. The pain sparks something in Annie, cutting through her near-frozen body, because she lashes out at the boy, clawing and hitting and kicking. Surprised, he tries to swim away, but she grabs him around the wrist and holds on. A large wave crashes over both of them, and when they emerge, the boy is shoving Annie's head under the water. I can see her legs kicking out spasmodically as she thrashes, struggling to get out of his grip. I clutch the table with white-knuckled fingers, unable to watch, even more unable to look away. "No," I say in a strangled voice, my eyes glued to the screen. "No."

It happens so fast that at first I think I've imagined it. One second, the boy from Two is on top of Annie, pushing her under, and the next, he is being pulled away by a violent undertow, and Annie takes off in the opposite direction, swimming for her life and expertly avoiding getting swept under by the riptide that drowns the boy. The replay – shown from the perspective of one of the underwater cameras that they have finally managed to get set up – features Annie, leaking blood, the spear still jammed in her side, her hair drifting around her as though it has a life of its own, making her look like a pale-faced sea banshee out of a child's nightmares, biting down hard on the boy's hand, then kicking him away from her. Her teeth are gritted in concentration and pain, and her eyes are clouded and crazed. She watches the water suck her tormentor under, her green eyes huge and wild and empty, and I wonder just what she is seeing.

And then I hear the cannon, the final cannon, and my entire body relaxes, slumping forward onto the computer console. I ignore the shouts of excitement and disbelief and frustration around me, instead watching Annie keep swimming through the flood, either unable to hear Claudius Templesmith boom out, "I give you…Annie Cresta, District Four, victor of the 70th Hunger Games!" or oblivious to what it signifies, breathless and bloody and nearly dead, swimming on and on and on until a hovercraft claw snags her out of the flood.

Mags gives me an exhausted hug and beams at me with her toothless smile. "Go," she mumbles. "Will need you. Not…crazy."

Johanna is glowering at me from across the room. So is Brutus. Most of the other mentors just look tired and resigned and relieved that the horrors are over…well, until next year, at least.

The giant screen shows Annie curled up into a fetal ball on the floor of the hovercraft, tearing at her skin and hair and what little remains of her drenched clothing. One of the Capitol's talking heads is suggesting electroshock therapy for the "unhinged child," his voice so calm and pleasant you would think he was suggesting ice cream or a walk in the park. I suddenly wish I had my trident in my hand instead of the cup of coffee that I have just spilled on myself. Annie's screams vibrate through the room, transmitted directly from the hovercraft to all of Panem. I don't understand what is going on. Where are the doctors? What happened to all the Capitol's high-tech medicines and scientifically-proven healing techniques? Why won't someone give her a damn blanket and tell her that she's okay?

I stand up to find someone to yell at or punch in the face, whipping around when I feel eyes on my back. Seneca Crane is staring at me from his place in the control station. His eyes no longer contain uncontrollable lust. Instead, they are full of knowledge and accusation – the knowledge that he understands exactly what I did, the accusation that I lied, that I used him, that I manipulated him and sold myself like the whore that I am, trading my body for her safety. I can't tell if he is angry, but honestly, I can't find it in me to care.

Because this time, I have won. Because Annie is alive. Because my little mermaid is coming home.


	12. Insanity

**A million thanks to everyone who wrote such great reviews (and to everyone who is reading this story, to be honest)! I love hearing what you think of the story, and it makes me happy when people have such strong reactions to the characters. (Though really, who couldn't love Finnick?) Special thanks to desray for the awesome review/encouragement with the job search. I appreciate it!**

**And yes, I know that this chapter is sort of...depressing? Just so you all know, I do have an overarching plan for this story, and that is what I am working towards. I've read so many fics where one moment Annie and Finnick hate each other or don't even know each other, and the next they are suddenly in love, and I don't want mine to be that way. I really want to develop them both as characters, create a real relationship for them, and let the romance aspect of the story unfold organically as they both struggle with their individual demons. Of course, we all know that Annie adores Finnick already, and Finnick is just too stubborn and too jaded from his experiences to realize what is right in front of him. But there's a few more obstacles they have to overcome first...it gets worse, but then it will get better, I promise!  
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The Peacekeepers guarding the hospital door nod to me in recognition when I show them the authorization chip that gives me permission to be here. They step aside, and I push open the door, entering the dim room with more than a little trepidation.

Annie has been out of the arena for three days, but no one except an endless stream of doctors and psychiatrists and shrinks has been permitted to see her yet. It took the combined forces of my anger, countless threats, reminders of exactly what I can do with a trident, and a few well-timed bats of my golden eyelashes to get me in here today.

The room is gray – gray carpets, gray ceilings, gray, pictureless walls, an empty gray bed with a wrinkled gray blanket hanging off it. On the lone chair near the bed sits an untouched tray of the gray mush that must pass for food in this place. I look around, slightly worried, as I carefully set the yellow sunflowers I have brought – so colorful they hurt my eyes in this world of gray – on the pillow. Where are the doctors and nurses? Where is Annie?

I hear a whimpering, desperate noise like someone being strangled or burnt alive, and follow it to the bathroom door, which is cracked open. I peek in, freezing in place, horrified by what I see.

Annie writhes in obvious agony on the floor of the shower as water beats down on her crumpled body. The gray hospital shift she is wearing is soaked all the way through, and her brown hair is plastered to her face, tangled and matted. I open my mouth – to ask her what is hurting her, or why she has her clothes on in the shower, or why on earth she won't get off the floor – but then I notice the iron cuffs chafing at her straining wrists, holding her in place. What the hell?

"Annie?" I enter the bathroom and kneel down beside the shower, which has clearly been running an inordinately long time, as water spills from the tiles to soak my knees.

Annie looks up at me, her cries dying in her throat, choked off by the water that floods her half-open mouth. For a long, terrible minute, her dead eyes are horribly empty, but then they widen in recognition, and her lips move incoherently as she struggles to say something. My name, I realize. "M-Mis-Mister –" she begins haltingly, but I cut her off, shaking my head.

"Finnick, Annie. It's just Finnick."

She stares up at me. "F-Finn…?" Her voice breaks off, hoarse from screaming and disuse.

I smile at her, hoping it is reassuring. "That works too. Annie…what's going on? Why are you…here?"

She starts shaking and struggling again, fear all over her face. "Don't want…please…no…hate it…no water, no shower, no water, please, oh God, please…"

"Shhh," I soothe, suddenly understanding. "Shhh, Annie. It'll be okay. I'm here now. I'm gonna take care of you." I lean over her prone figure, the shower's lukewarm spray drenching my shirt, and gently unlock the restraints keeping her chained to the hard tiled floor.

Part of me wants to be shocked, wants to believe that they wouldn't actually do this to her. That no one could be so cruel as to force someone who is clearly, deathly (and quite understandably, given what happened the last time she spent in it) afraid of water to stay under the tepid shower for God knows how long. But this is the Capitol, and the Capitol's cruelty knows no bounds. There is not much they could do, no matter how vicious or vapid, that would really surprise me at this point.

I stand up, shutting off the spray with a decisive click. Annie gazes up at me, her face contorted in pain, her wrists chaffed raw from the metal restraints. She is shivering violently.

"Come on, Annie. You need to change out of those clothes."

She just keeps staring at me.

"Annie?" I bend down, crouching beside her quaking body.

"You made it go away." Her voice is soft, incredulous. Almost awestruck.

"Yes, Annie. It's gone now. It can't hurt you anymore."

She frowns, shakes her head, and pushes herself up to a seated position, hugging her knees to her chest. "It will come back. It always comes back. But his head doesn't. It never does." Her low, haunted tone sends chills down my spine.

She sees me shiver and tilts her head in that odd, doll-like way she has. "Mr. – er, Finnick is cold?"

I shake my head, though now that she mentions it, I realize that I'm not exactly warm. My clothes are wet from the shower, and cling to my skin uncomfortably.

"Finnick is hurt." She reaches out to touch the long, shallow scab above my eye, the remnant of the cut from Seneca Crane's damn desk. Her fingers are trembling, her hands bruised and weak. "Why is Finnick hurt?" Suddenly, she slams her hands against the glass wall of the shower, so hard that she shatters the glass. Her hands drip blood, but she doesn't seem to notice, banging against the broken glass again and again as she shouts. I don't understand why there is so much anguish in her voice. "Why is Finnick hurt? Finnick should _not_ be hurt! No, no, no, no, no!"

"Annie!" I grab her by the shoulders, not hard, but firmly enough to stop her from punching the glass anymore. "Stop that. Now." Why does it matter so much to her, this one little cut on my forehead that most other people haven't even noticed? God knows she's been in a lot worse pain lately. "Come on, mermaid. You must be cold."

I help her stand and dry her off as best I can with a gray towel. Then I go in the other room and find some clean clothes for her – another gray shift, which appears to be all this hospital has. I wish they had a sweater or something; these sorry attempts at dresses can't be very warm. I hand the shift to her, and she lets it fall to the ground, then shuts the door in my face. When she reopens it, she has changed her clothes. She is still shaking, and her wet hair drips down her back.

"Come here." I pat the edge of the bed, and she walks over slowly, almost cautiously. I wrap the towel around her shoulders, find a hairbrush, and kneel on the bed behind her, brushing the tangles out of her hair. It feels incredibly soft and silky – the one thing that hasn't seemed to change, in spite of everything she has been through. I spend a long time brushing her hair. She seems to find it relaxing, and so do I. Somehow it comforts me, the feel of her glossy hair between my fingers, solid and present and real, reminding me that she is alive.

By the time I am done, her hair is dry, curling up slightly at the ends. "Better?" I ask. She stares at me. I pull the blanket from the bed and situate it around her, wishing I could just as easily wrap her up and keep her safe from whatever inner horrors are obviously tormenting her.

"Annie, do you…do you want to talk about any of it?" I know it is pointless to ask a victor if she is okay, so I don't.

She shakes her head furiously, over and over and over again. "No…no talk…no words…don't want to think, don't want to see, don't want to hear…No! Stop it, I said! Shut up!"

She spins on me, yelling, and I abruptly wonder what I said, then just as abruptly realize that she is not talking to me. She presses her hands to her ears, claws at her face, thrashes around in the blanket. When her hands go to her eyes, her fingers scratching as though she means to dig out those wide, deep pools of emerald, I reach out and hold her hands down. She stops struggling and slumps over, all the fight sapped out of her.

Blood leaks from a scratch on her cheek, and I dab at it with the sleeve of my shirt. Suddenly, she grabs my hand, hard, with both of hers, and looks me straight in the eyes.

Her gaze is clear, alert, and I know that she remembers everything, remembers it all too well, and that she always will. The arena has done something to Annie that it didn't do to me, and her strange, beautiful mind is compensating in whatever ways it can, but it isn't enough. I don't' know if it ever will be. "Finnick?"

"Yes?"

Her sea-foam eyes peer into mine, urgent and pleading and hopeless. "Will you do something for me?"

"Of course, mermaid." I squeeze her cold hand. "Anything."

Her jaw clenches, and her eyes grow hard. "Kill me."

I freeze. My mouth opens, closes, opens again, almost on its own volition. How could she want that? How could she ask it of me?

I keep gaping at her, my mind a blank whirlwind, unsure of what to say. Finally, she turns away from me. "Forget I said it."

Yeah, right. Not when the thought of Annie Cresta dead has haunted me all through the Games, not after everything I did to bring her back safely. It never even occurred to me that perhaps she, like so many other victors, wouldn't want to return alive. And it's not a possibility I want to imagine right now.

"Annie…" I reach out tentatively, taking her hands in mine. They are frigid and bony and bruised. I make a mental note to talk with her doctors, to demand that they bring her blankets and good, hot meals and stop forcing her to shower in an attempt to "cure" her arena-induced fear of water. "Annie, mermaid…I can't tell you it will all go away, because it won't, and I won't lie to you. But it will get better. I promise. One day, you'll wake up and realize that there are still things that make life worth living. You'll learn to find happiness in unexpected places. You'll remember how to laugh. You'll smile again." Please, _please_ smile again.

Annie nods, slowly. I am not at all convinced she believes me.

"It is like that now, for you?" she asks uncertainly. "You have things that…that make your life worth living?"

"Of course I do." I'm not sure why I do it, but I reach up and stroke her torn cheek. Her skin is icy and dry, yet smooth, almost like cold velvet. She shivers under my touch, and her eyes grow huge.

She doesn't say anything for a long time, clutching the bouquet of sunflowers to her chest and retreating someplace deep in her mind. I hope for her sake that it's a nice place, a place of sunshine and flowers and sea spray, a place where the Hunger Games never happened, a place full of people who care about her.

A dark-haired Capitol doctor comes in around six with a tray of gray oatmeal that Annie doesn't touch. He hooks an IV up to her frail arm and gruffly informs me that visiting hours are over.

I nod. I guess it doesn't matter if I leave – Annie is so out of it that she probably wouldn't notice if I stripped off all my damp clothes and did a dance. I doubt she'll remember my visit when she wakes up tomorrow. The doctor leaves the room again, and I stand up, touching Annie's soft hair for a moment and gently pressing her hand. Her eyes are open, but they stare right through me. Occasionally she flinches and bites down on her lower lip, drawing blood. I know that it's the arena she's seeing now.

"Bye, Annie. Sleep well," I say, my voice loud in the silence of the room.

"Finnick?" I almost jump when she speaks. Her green eyes blink up at me, filled with a sudden, unexpected warmth, and her hand tights around mine. "Finnick…so beautiful."

I look around at the endless gray, confused. "What? What is?"

"Finnick." Her eyes flutter closed, and she drifts into a restless sleep, her sunflowers wrapped up tightly in her arms.

I head back to the training center in a daze, barely hearing the thrilled shouts of the fans I pass on the streets. Lydia Frill gives me a strange look when I come in, and at dinner, Mags asks what has me grinning like an idiot. I just shake my head, unable to explain it even to myself, much less anyone else. I am still smiling when I fall asleep.

I visit Annie every day, in between my liaisons with clients and a series of unpleasant meetings with President Snow, during which Mags and I try unsuccessfully to convince him to cancel the post-Games interviews and just let Annie return home.

Some days, Annie refuses to get out of bed, staring blankly into space or screaming with her hands pressed over her ears; other times she wants to talk, or listen to music, or write. I bring her pens and notebooks, which she fills with dark, troubled words and haunting memories that bring us both back to the horrors of our own individual Games. She never asks me not to read what she writes, so sometimes I glance at the poems on the pages when she leaves her book open, but I don't make a habit of looking through her journals. She deserves some small semblance of privacy, after everything that's been torn from her.

Cinna and Mags visit Annie too, much to her doctors' evident displeasure. I bring her gifts whenever I visit – bouquets of flowers to brighten the room, a warm patchwork quilt I find in a second-hand shop, a sky-blue mug and a tin of powdered hot chocolate mix. Her mouth twitches oddly when I give her the cocoa, as though she is struggling to remember how to smile, and then she dissolves into tears, and I am struck by the fact that this is the first time she's ever cried in front of me.

"Annie…" I bring her into my arms, holding her close and rocking her gently. She mutters about hell and floods and severed heads and how she wants it all to end. I want to take away the pain, to turn back time and somehow make it so her name is never chosen at the Reaping, to reach inside her heart and sweep all the shadows away, but I can't. All I can do is hold her tightly, offering her whatever strength I have as she breaks down in my arms. "I know, Annie. I know. Soon. You can go home soon. I promise."

But as usual, Snow has other plans. He schedules her crowning ceremony for the end of the week, telling me – in a tone that permits no argument – that the Capitol is getting restless, and that things will go poorly for Annie if his people tire of waiting. I silently wonder how much "poorer" things can really get for her. And then he introduces me to Sergio Everett, the pock-marked, corpulent Chief of Security, and explains that Mr. Everett has a "keen interest" in meeting the new victor, and I know things can get a lot worse.

I am a mess the night of the ceremony. I can't keep food down, my head is pounding, and I lash out at anyone who dares approach me, practically exploding when Cinna asks me a question about Annie's shoes. He just gives me an odd look and goes away, telling Annie she can wear whatever shoes she likes. She ends up going barefoot.

I sit in the front row, as close to Annie as they will let me get, scanning the audience and the assembled Peacekeepers for Sergio and contemplating exactly what they would do to me if I arranged a private meeting with the man and just happened to accidently strangle him while he was screwing me. But I know there is nothing I can do that won't result in further punishment for Annie.

My mind races as I struggle to think of a way to get her back to Four, a way to make them lose interest in the strange little mermaid with the wide eyes and the glossy hair and the endearing interview and the crazy – That's it. My stomach twists at the thought, at the utter wrongness of the idea, but I know what I have to do.

As it turns out, it's not all that much. Annie does most of it for me.

She rambles onto the stage and just stands there, shielding her eyes from the bright lights with one hand, completely oblivious to both Caesar Flickerman's attempts to engage her in conversation and the gleaming silver circlet that the President places on her head. It bothers me that her crown is silver. Mine was gold. Johanna's was gold. Even as far back as Mags, the victors' crowns have always been gold. Most people, especially the Capitol idiots, won't even notice it, but I do. And I know what it means. In his subtle, snake-like way, Snow is reminding the audience that Annie may have won the Hunger Games, but she really isn't a victor, not like the rest of us. She's not brutally strong, not lethal, not a vicious killer. She was never meant to survive. And no one should get too attached to her.

I don't realize that I am grinding my teeth and fisting my hands until Mags touches my elbow and whispers, "Calm, boy." So I force myself to smile cheekily and sit back and watch Annie perched uncertainly on the edge of her chair, playing with the ruffles on her aquamarine sundress and muttering about water, water, too much water, you think it gives life but what gives can also take away, until the audience laughs uproariously. She looks at them – at us – then, her bewildered expression almost angry, and her hands go to the crown on her head.

Her eyes land on me, and I smile at her, as encouragingly as I can. She waves with both hands, then walks over to the edge of the stage and gives me that same dainty little curtsy she gave when we first met. "Hi, Finnick! Hi! Look! I'm like a princess!"

Her enthusiastic confusion tears at me, and her childlike voice makes me want to run up on the stage, pull her close, and take her far away from the cruel, lecherous eyes of the Capitol. The crowd laughs again, unable to contain themselves.

And something in Annie snaps. She rips the crown off her head and throws it straight at President Snow, nearly hitting him in the face. She yells at everyone and no one, shouting for them to shut up, to leave her alone, to go back to their pointless, shallow lives and take their stupid crowns and their awful Games with them.

Caesar Flickerman immediately starts the replay of her Games, drowning out her ranting. I have never been so grateful to the ridiculous talk-show host in my life.

Annie curls into a little ball on the floor, huddled against the chair she is supposed to sit in, and watches most of the replay with wide, petrified eyes and her hands over her ears. Her face grows whiter and whiter as the film nears the spot where the Careers turned on Curtis, and I want to tell her to shut her eyes, but I can't. Why is she still looking?

Her televised, pre-recorded screams when Curtis is beheaded have nothing on the live ones. She wails, a bloodcurdling noise that for some reason has the Capitol audience in hysterics; she writhes on the stage and claws at her skin.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Snow give a signal, and two Peacekeepers leap onto the stage to try and subdue her. Caesar Flickerman approaches her thrashing body, practically begging her to calm down, but she just lashes out at them all, screaming and hitting and kicking, tearing at the nearest Peacekeeper's uniform and yanking hard on Caesar's dyed blue hair, sending his wig toppling askew. He makes a flustered face as he struggles to hold onto the hair piece, and the audience laughs again. To them, this is nothing but live comedy, provided expressly for their amusement.

Annie kicks the second Peacekeeper in the stomach, hard. He stumbles backward, and there is a sudden silence. And then five more Peacekeepers are on Annie, their clubs and fists pounding down on her with all the force they can muster.

The lights dim and the replay continues as a screen rises in front of the stage, hiding Annie from sight. I push past the Peacekeepers stationed at the side entrance, running blindly through the crowd, and before I know it I am on the stage, shoving the Peacekeepers out of the way and shouting for them to stop.

When they finally do, Annie lies motionless on the floor, one arm bent behind her back at an unnatural angle, bruises covering her face and body, blood dripping from a crack in her skull. I sink to the ground beside her, suddenly unable to breathe.

Sergio Everett stomps onto the stage, glaring at Annie's prone form. "Get her out of here."

Doctors try to yank her from my arms, but I hold on until they agree that I can ride in the ambulance with her. They put her in intensive care, but refuse to let anyone in with her. Everett even sets up a cadre of guards outside her door, as though tiny little Annie is a threat to national security. Mags, Cinna, and I stay in the waiting room all night, none of us able to sleep. I am not sure exactly what it is we are waiting for.

They pronounce her stable early in the morning, and Mags breathes out a sigh of relief. I tell her to go and get some rest. She doesn't want to leave, but I manage to convince her. Cinna escorts her back to the training center.

Leaving me alone when President Snow himself comes to see Annie in the hospital.

I put on my nonchalant, not-that-bright playboy face. I've never given Snow cause to question exactly how much I love my Capitol life, and I don't intend to now. The less he knows about my true feelings, the better.

"Finnick." He gives me a thin-lipped, snakelike smile. "Your new victor is trouble."

Well, then. He could at least pretend to care about the fact that his Peacekeepers were the ones who beat her senseless.

I walk over to him, positioning myself between her room and Snow. There is no way I'm letting him go in there alone with her.

"She doesn't understand," I say, doing my best to look concerned and slightly stupid.

"Really? She threw off her crown, Finnick. Threw it at _me_, I might add. She's not being…cooperative."

I fight the urge to shiver. "Mr. President, I don't think…I don't think she knows what's going on. She's not right, in the head. Never has been. Even before the Games." I add the last part hurriedly, not wanting him to think that I am blaming the Capitol for her breakdown. As though there is anyone else to blame.

Snow looks thoughtful – a thoughtful snake. "Perhaps you are right." He shakes his head. "Pity. She's not a hideous girl, when she's not gouging out her own flesh. My Chief of Security wasn't the only one taken with her. She could have made quite a life for herself here. Could've been as happy as you are."

I grin up at him. "I doubt that. No one could be as happy as me."

They hold a press conference the next day, in lieu of Annie's victor interview. They demand her presence, though, so Cinna and the preps doll her up, covering her scarred and mottled skin with clothes and paint and shimmery makeup. It is a private conference, just our District Four team and the press, along with some of the other victors. Cinna helps Annie sit down, and says near her side throughout the whole ordeal, just out of the camera's line of sight. People are setting up equipment still, so I go over to her and kneel in front of her chair. She looks at me, her face pained and pale and joyless.

"Annie. Are you…feeling any better?"

She nods. "Yes," she murmurs, her tone mechanical, as if someone is controlling her by remote, "the Capitol is taking good care of me."

I roll my eyes so only she can see. "I tried to visit you, mermaid. They wouldn't let any of us come in…"

"It's alright. They took good care of me."

So I've heard. "Annie…please, talk to me."

Her voice is so dull and lifeless, it makes me want to punch someone. Preferably President Snow. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Stop it, Annie, just stop it, okay?" She stares up at me. "I'm gonna get you out of here, mermaid. Just…just don't listen to any of this. Don't listen, Annie. Please."

She doesn't seem to comprehend the last part, but her eyes brighten the tiniest bit at the mention of leaving. "Annie can…go home?"

I nod and take her hand. It feels so small and frail underneath my own. "Yes. Annie can go home. And never come back."

"Oh, Finnick! You're the best ever!" She throws herself into my arms, and I stumble back, taken by surprised. We both topple to the ground and stay there. I hug her, longer than I should, cherishing her warmth, her praise, her trust…her. Knowing this is the last time I will ever have any of it.

The press conference is its own kind of hell. The reporters laugh at Annie's stilted, robotic replies to everything they ask her, and I laugh along with them, because what else can I do? Cinna's eyes narrow, and Mags just looks sad, and the rest of the victors glare at me for not protecting one of our own, besides Johanna, who looks vaguely amused by the whole thing, and Haymitch, who looks drunk.

But when they ask me to comment on Annie's state of mind, when all the other victors look away and fidget awkwardly with their clothes, Haymitch Abernathy is the one who meets my eyes with his steel gaze and nods sharply.

"She's not all there," I say, repeating my words to Snow. "Never has been. Back in Four, they call her Crazy Cresta."

The reporters chuckle. Cinna's mouth falls half-open, his face a mask of obvious disgust. And Annie – Annie stares at me with wide, empty eyes full of despair, and all the strength and hope and light inside her disappears, seemingly instantaneously. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to. Betrayal is written all over her face.

"You would agree with the medical team, then, that Miss Cresta is clinically insane?" a tight-faced woman with teardrop tattoos falling from her eyes asks me, shoving a microphone towards me. "That she should go to the clinic in Two for treatment?"

It is the first I've heard of any clinic in Two. I thought she would just get to go back to District Four. Annie's eyes grow ever emptier, and Cinna stares at me accusingly.

"I'm not a doctor," I reply. "Though I do know a lot about female anatomy." I wink at the woman, and she trills out a giggle. "But yes, I would say that Annie needs treatment."

"Because she's insane?" the woman presses. Annie meets my gaze unflinchingly, but does not seem to read the plea for understanding that I try to express with my eyes. Why are they doing this? Why?

"Because she's insane," I say resignedly.

Annie looks away, down at the ground, her bare feet tracing patterns in the plush carpet. She refuses to meet my eyes, and when the conference is wrapped up, she turns to Cinna, and he helps her out of the room, both of them completely ignoring me when I call her name.

"Annie, wait. Please. Annie…"

I'm pretty sure she hears me. But she doesn't reply. I try to visit her before she leaves for Two, but Cinna answers the door of the hospital room they are keeping her in and tells me that neither of them wants to see my face ever again.

I find a bar, get wasted, and stumble to the train station in time to watch her train leave the next morning. I stay in the shadows, knowing she won't want me there. I watch until she has been dragged on board, watch the train disappear down the tracks, watch her goodbye committee of three – Mags, Cinna, and, absurdly, Lydia Frill – drift away with the nearly-invisible smoke that puffs up from the engine. And then I find another bar and drink until I pass out.


	13. Mute

**It's another intense one...be warned! Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and alerted the last chapter...I love hearing what you think of the story. I especially enjoy hearing which characters you are drawn to, what about them moves you, and whether or not you think they are "in character" according to the books. Of course most of this isn't actually in the books (hence, the point of fan-fiction), but I'm really trying to make it logical that Annie and Finnick would have gone through this journey before the books and then ended up the people they are when we meet them in Catching Fire and Mockingjay. Let me know how I'm doing!**

**Also let me know if there's any particular scenes/moments you are especially looking forward to...and yes, the romance will be amped up eventually. They just have to both work through their particular demons first - Annie has to heal from the arena and learn how to trust again, and Finnick has to admit that he has feelings and that a decent girl would actually want him after everything that he's done. So it will be a journey.**

**Hopefully I can update again soon, but no promises, since work is killing me and I'm also in the middle of a search for housing. Oh, joy. If only I could just live with Finnick in a little cottage by the beach...  
**

* * *

Six months pass in a slow, hazy blur. President Snow keeps me busy – not so busy that Annie's betrayed expression doesn't haunt me every time I close my eyes, but busy enough that I can't do a thing about it. Every week, I send a letter and a gift-wrapped novel to the Wellspring Home for Therapeutic Recovery (Annie's new address, which the Capitol officials gave me), but she never writes back, and I know in my heart that Annie hates me as much as I hate myself. I also know that she has every right to.

There is no Victory Tour this year – Annie will never be the guest of honor at a glittering ball, will never see the immense forests of District Seven, the flashing lights and buzzing energy of Three, or the coal mines and shantytowns of Twelve, will never dance under the starts with moonlight shimmering in her hair and a soft smile on her lips. I try to pretend it doesn't bother me. I remind myself that she wouldn't have danced with me anyways.

I force myself to slap on a Finnick-smile and find some more giddy Capitol girls to sleep with, because in the absence of the Victory Tour, it seems that Snow has instituted a _Victor_ Tour, requiring our presence in the Capitol to entertain and appease the bored citizens in between Hunger Games.

Some of us get off easier than others. Mags dozes in a corner, occasionally waking up to eat dried plums. Beetee and Wiress meet with a group of Capitol inventors who hang on their every word and declare them geniuses. Brutus gets into fights. Cashmere and Gloss patronize the glitziest nightclubs. Johanna glares at people when they ask for her autograph. Haymitch drinks. I fuck.

It is almost time for the joke that is Panem's annual presidential "election" when I run into Cinna at the opening of an art gallery. I haven't been expressly trying to avoid him, per se, but I haven't gone out of my way to keep in touch with him, either. I just can't deal with the loathing in his eyes every time we are in the same room. He gives me a disgusted look, as though he just caught me having sex with his only child. "Odair," he says, his tone flat. "Seems like you're enjoying life as much as ever." I don't miss the way he glances disapprovingly at the two girls hanging off my arms.

I meet his gaze, unwilling to let him think he is getting to me. "You know me. Always having fun. Right, ladies?" The girls giggle, an obnoxious, trilling sound. Johanna chooses that moment to spot me and walk over. Cinna glances around the room as if he is looking for an escape route, and I am sorely tempted to go with him. Johanna and I haven't slept together since before…before everything, and I didn't exactly rush to meet her at the train station when she came to the Capitol this year. Not like I ever have before, but still…I'm being distant, and I know she wonders why. I'm not sure what to tell her, when I don't even know why myself.

"Finnick," she says by way of greeting, giving me a cool nod. "Cinna. And…?" She eyes my two hanger-ons, her small smile mocking and predatory.

I shrug and give the girls a sheepish smile. "Since when have names been important to me, Jo?"

For a moment, I think she's going to slap me or spit in my face – I am well aware of just how much she hates that particular nickname. But then she laughs derisively. "Don't I know it. I'm getting a drink. You want one, Finnick?" She looks at me, her hard eyes gleaming flirtatiously, and it's obvious that she's hoping we'll hook up tonight. I wonder why she's so into me, when it's clear I'm not at all faithful to her. Maybe that's how she likes it, though. She has enough Capitol lovers of her own to keep her occupied when I'm not around, and I highly doubt she sees me as anything but a handsome face and a good lay, even if she's never had to pay for me.

I shake my head, because the last thing I need right now is a drink. She purses her lips in annoyance, and suddenly I'm not seeing cold, sarcastic, femme fatale Johanna Mason beside me, but gentle, stubborn Annie Cresta, her hair cascading down her back like a copper waterfall, green eyes flashing with all the hidden depths of the sea, full, pouty lips puckered together in disapproval as she watches me hit on everything that breathes.

"Cinna," I say abruptly, unable to bear it any longer, "we need to talk." I shake off the two girls, winking at them and muttering some lame excuse, as Cinna, entirely nonplussed, grabs my elbow and heads to the bathroom.

Haymitch, bent over the sink and rinsing his mouth out with water, gives us a startled look as I pull Cinna inside a stall, but I don't care. Let him think what he wants. They always do.

Cinna sits on the closed toilet seat. I lean against the stall door. "What is it, Odair?" He seems weary, older than he was six months ago, yet strangely, not at all surprised to find himself locked in a bathroom with Finnick Odair. Maybe they all expect it by now.

"It's…look, Cinna, I know what you think of me."

"Does it matter what I think?" I do not reply, and after a while, he continues, finally letting loose with the accusations that I know must have been building inside of him for the past half of the year. "She trusted you, Odair. She trusted you, and you used that trust to hurt her. To break her, more than that arena ever did. And the worst of it is…"

He must notice the look in my eyes, or the way my hands are balling into fists, because he stops talking. But I have to hear it all. I need to know.

"What?" I demand. "What's the worst of it?"

"She believes you."

"Huh?" I stare at him blankly.

"She thinks she's crazy, Odair. Thinks she deserves to be locked up like an animal in District Two. Because _you_ said it. The famous Finnick Odair."

I sink to the floor, not caring how filthy it is, and bury my head in my hands. "I didn't know what else to do," I mutter weakly. "I was trying to help her."

"You did such a spectacular job of it."

"Fuck you."

"I'd rather you didn't."

I don't bother replying to that. My head is a mess – full of accusations and arenas and all my failures, dead kids and drunken nights and the knowledge that I am nothing but a repulsive, worthless playboy, full of Mags and my parents and Gamemakers and Snow and above all Annie, Annie curtsying shyly when we first met, calling me _sir_ and _Mr. Finnick_, Annie throwing the knife into the portrait of the president, Annie bandaging my hands and holding back my hair as I vomited, Annie shimmering in her mermaid gown and saying such sweet things about me to Caesar Flickerman, Annie giving me the bookmark and thanking me for buying her flowers all those years ago, Annie in the arena, screaming and shaking and getting stabbed, Annie swimming, swimming, swimming, Annie lying shattered and petrified on the shower floor, her wrists shackled to the tile, Annie's warm eyes when she looked at me and called me beautiful, Annie, Annie, Annie, Annie, Annie…

"What did you mean?" I ask Cinna at last, my voice sounding choked and strange to my own ears. "About being locked up in Two?"

Cinna looks incredulous. "I'd ask if you've written her, much less visited, but I think I know the answer."

I scowl at him. "Quit acting like I don't care about her, Cinna. I've written to her. I've written to her every damn week. But obviously she doesn't want anything to do with me. And don't think I wouldn't visit her if I could. We're not all as free as you Capitol stylists. Some of us have to wait to be sent to Two."

I suck in my breath, knowing I've said too much. I can't hear Haymitch retching outside anymore, and I'm pretty sure he's listening, too.

"Sent?"

"Never mind." I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair – a nervous habit I picked up years ago, when I was still in school.

Cinna's eyes narrow, his gold eyeliner shining against his dark lids. "You're not just the skirt-chasing boy-toy you pretend to be, are you, Odair?"

"I shrug. "Depends on who you ask."

"We're askin' _you_, boy." Haymitch barges in, breaking the lock on the stall and banging the door into my spine. He takes a swig from a dirty flask, then offers it to me and Cinna. We both refuse. I don't particularly feel like dying of alcohol poisoning today, and I'm guessing Cinna doesn't, either.

As he drinks, Haymitch watches me, his gaze harsh and penetrating. Finally he wipes his mouth on his filthy sleeve. "Victors talk, just like everyone else, you know," he announces at last. "Some of 'em are saying things I don't think you'd like to hear, boy. Sayin' you're not one of us anymore, if you ever were. Sayin' you're Snow's creature. Sayin' you ruined poor Annie Cresta's chance at recoverin' because you thought her pain was a big joke."

I glare at him. "I think we both know that's not true." Especially considering Haymitch was the one who wanted me to do what I did.

He nods. "Told Cinna that. Told 'em all. Problem is, no one told that little Annie of yours not to take it personally. And now no one knows where she's gone."

"She's at the treatment center," I tell him. "In Two. The Wellspring Home for Therapeutic Recovery." I know the name like the back of my hand from so many weeks of writing it on the front of her packages.

"Yeah, well…" Haymitch begins, glancing at Cinna, who takes over.

"I was in Two last week, for a business conference. I looked up the address and tried to visit her, and…we've been sending our letters to an abandoned warehouse, Finnick. There is no Wellspring Home."

I don't know what to say. I can't say anything at all. So I punch the wall instead. I'm pretty sure it hurts my fist more than it hurts the stall, but it still feels good to take my anger out on something. "If she's hurt, if they've laid one finger on her, if she's…if she's…dead –" I can barely make myself say the word – "I'll kill him, I swear I will, I don't care what agreements we've made, I'll force him to drink his own fucking poison and –"

We all stare at each other, the bathroom suddenly as silent as a graveyard at midnight.

"Good thing I brought those anti-bugging devices of Beetee's," Haymitch mumbles at last.

And then, in a low, buzzed voice, Haymitch tells me about a plot that sounds more insane than anything Annie's ever said, a rebel plan to bring down the Capitol and put an end to the Hunger Games once and for all. A select group of sympathetic Capitol citizens – including Cinna, apparently – are aiding the rebels, who are seeking ways to mobilize their individual districts. The plan seems to rely heavily on charismatic victors who can rally the rest of the population to the cause, and to be honest, it sounds pretty much exactly like what it is – the drunken ramblings of a man with nothing left to lose. It's not really much of a plan at all, to tell the truth, isn't a promise of anything near certain victory, but it's more than I had an hour ago, and some desperate part of me clings to it like a drowning man.

"Mags kept badgering us to get you in on things," Haymitch explains. "Some people weren't so sure about your loyalties. You do…er…spend a hell of a lot of time in the Capitol."

I flash him my patented playboy grin. "I screw a hell of a lot of the Capitol, you mean." He inclines his head in assent. "And that makes me the most valuable asset your little rebellion has."

Cinna snorts. "No one here is interested in your dick, Odair. Or in having you betray us like you did with Annie –"

Haymitch interrupts him. "Enough, Cinna. The boy had his reasons. Seems to me he was tryin' to protect her, like he says."

"If that's your idea of protection –"

"Goddamn it, Cinna, I did what I had to!" I slam my fist into the bathroom stall again, so hard that Cinna and Haymitch both flinch. "And if I hadn't, you two wouldn't be sitting here right now begging me to join your uprising, or whatever you're calling it. So until someone hands you a trident and puts you in a cage with twenty-three children and keeps pulling the strings on every aspect of your life even after you've murdered your way out of the arena, don't you dare lecture me about how to protect my tributes. Because only victors really know that winning the Games is more dangerous than dying in them."

Cinna glances at Haymitch, who jerks his head once in an approximation of a brittle nod, then takes another long swig of white liquor. The stylist says nothing, but his gold-flecked eyes are thoughtful.

"Alright," Cinna says at last, when he realizes that neither Haymitch nor I is going to elaborate further on our experiences in the arena. "I'll have to accept that. But it still doesn't explain why you're our most valuable asset."

"People talk after sex," I say shortly. "Especially when they're drunk. Or tired. Or feeling guilty about something. You'd be surprised the things I hear."

"Like?" Haymitch sniggers, lazily swishing the remnants of his alcohol around in the flask.

"Oh, little things, mostly. Nothing too important," I tease. "That whiskers are _so_ out and feathers are _so_ in, who's fucking who, which Peacekeepers can be bribed, what sorts of "accidental" deaths are being arranged this week." I grin at the two men. "The truth about Thirteen."

Even Haymitch looks taken aback.

"Thirteen's gone," Cinna feels the need to remind me. "Bombed and ruined in the war."

"Is it?" I just keep smiling.

"Tell us, boy," Haymitch growls.

I let my false smile vanish. "Why should I?"

That gets a real reaction from Twelve's drunkest – and only living – victor. "What the hell do you mean? The rebellion…you think it's a big game or something?" Both of us flinch instinctively at his unconscious choice of words, and Haymitch grows quiet.

"Finnick," Cinna adds, "you're a victor, you know what it's like in the arena, you just said so yourself. You know you have to help."

"See, that's where you're wrong. I don't _have_ to do anything. In fact, I'm pretty fucking tired of people telling me what I have to do. So I'm making the rules this time."

Finally comprehending, Haymitch finishes off his liquor and lets out a loud burp. "Whattaya want, Odair?"

"If you want me to help you, your little resistance is going to help me first. I want to get Annie out of Two and back where she belongs."

Cinna and Haymitch exchange an uncertain look. They were not expecting this. Clearly, Mags left out particular aspects of my personality when she gave them the pre-meeting briefing on Finnick Odair.

"Look, boy, we're not even sure if –"

I cut him off. "I don't want to hear it. You said you have rebels from all over the Districts, even in the Capitol. I can tell you they're not gonna make much of a rebellion if they can't even rescue one eighteen-year-old girl."

Cinna gives me a weird look. "Annie's seventeen, Finnick. And barely that." He pauses, thinking. "At least she was six months ago."

Oh. Right. I knew that. It's not like it matters anyways, right? "Whatever," I say, shrugging it off. I really wish Cinna would quit looking at me like I'm some pedophilic creep every time I say anything that has to do with Annie. "Anyways, that's the deal. You get her out of there, and I'll give you all the inside info you want."

Three days later, I am in District Two, ostensibly to pay a "professional visit" to Milly Franklin, one of the Peacekeepers in charge of recruitment and training. It is the best working experience I've had since fishing with my dad as a child – Milly has a spacious, comfortable house with an outdoor pond, a balcony, and a private guest room for me to stay in, and she's about as interested in taking advantage of my "services" as Cinna is. The one time we hole up together in her office, it's to discuss tactics.

Milly can't actually be seen taking the famous Finnick Odair on a tour of District Two's medical facilities, as it would lead to too many unwanted questions, but she gives me her car to borrow, as well as a map of the district. Two is huge, big enough to easily hide any number of secrets, much less one small girl who probably is doing her best to avoid calling any attention to herself whatsoever. But I am determined not to leave unless I am taking Annie back to Four with me. I got her in here, and I am going to get her out, or die in the attempt.

It takes me a while to comb through every hospital in the District, and it takes nearly as long for me to invent legitimate excuses for being there. I end up buying a bunch of flowers every day and handing them out to patients, on the pretense that I am simply visiting the hospitals out of the goodness of my heart. Most of the patients are from the Capitol (where no hospitals are permitted, on the grounds that seeing such blatant evidence of illness, death, and human misery would be harmful to the well-being of the Capitol's citizens – you know, those same citizens who cheer on the murders of young children every year); they just shriek at my presence and take it for granted that Finnick Odair loves them all so much that he came all the way out to Two just to check up on them.

I go to all the hospitals, but none of them are treating patients with any sort mental illnesses. I ask the nurses who insist on accompanying me everywhere – usually while they hike up their skirts and tell me how they are recently single – about the Wellspring Home for Therapeutic Recovery, but no one seems to have heard of it.

I am distraught and exhausted, standing in the waiting room of the last hospital in Two and buying my fourth cup of coffee for the day, when a stern-faced nurse I haven't seen before approaches me. She has short, close-cropped hair and a pug nose, and something about her looks vaguely familiar, though I can't quite place it.

"Mr. Odair?"

I turn to her, really hoping she just wants an autograph or something. I'm not in the mood to be flirty and charming right now. "My sister wanted me to give you this." She glances around before carefully slipping me a folded piece of paper. I unfold it, half-curious, half-expecting one of the more-than-slightly pornographic nude photos that girls feel the need to send me. But it is just a few words and numbers – an address, I realize. "She said to tell you to go there, tonight, and you'll find what you're looking for."

I nod, not really sure whether or not to trust this stranger. "Your sister…?"

"Lyme. She won the Games about ten years ago, now."

Lyme. Of course. I remember her – the dark-haired, solemn victor who won by rigging up explosives and blowing her opponents sky-high. The nurse looks almost exactly like her, and I wonder if they are twins.

The coffee machine beeps, and I take my drink. When I turn around again, Lyme's sister has vanished, leaving me with the paper clenched in my hand.

At sunset, I drive to the address she gave me, leaving the main metropolitan area and passing through run-down apartment complexes, empty warehouses, and old factories before emerging on a dirt road that cuts a path through a wide, fallow field. After about an hour, I veer left at a fork in the road, drive through thick woods, and, after a few false turns, spot the building exactly where Lyme's map indicates it should be. At least, I think it's a building – and that's using the word "building" very generously. The dimly-lit, dilapidated structure is surrounded by barbed wire, and as I approach, I take in the collapsing, termite-eaten wood, the shattered glass of broken windows, the rats that scurry away when I park the car. A faded sign near a gap in the sharp wire fence reads: _Asylum for the Mentally Deranged_.

My first instinct, the victor's instinct that has kept me alive this long, is to run as far away from this place as I can, but I know that won't help Annie. If they really are keeping her here…I fist my hands and bang on the door. No one answers, so I turn the rusty knob and open it, entering a dark, empty hall. A strong smell – stale garbage and rot and human filth – overwhelms me, and I fight the urge to gag. Cockroaches as big as baseballs skitter over my feet, mold oozes from the cracks in the walls, and something that looks suspiciously like dried blood stains the floor.

I cover my mouth, trying to suppress the stench of decay, and force my legs forward, an awful feeling tearing my gut apart. A light flickers on and off faintly beneath a closed door, so I walk through the roaches and push it open. An old woman, so ancient and wrinkled that I think she must have died two decades ago, and someone just forgot to tell her body, looks up from a sagging desk. Her creased face breaks into a skeletal smile when she recognizes me. "Finnick Odair?" she rasps, batting her pale, rheumy eyes at me.

I nod, not quite trusting myself to breathe without retching.

"What are you doing here?"

I honestly have no idea. "I…I'm looking for someone," I manage at last. "She's not supposed to be here."

The woman's smile stretches larger – a jack-o-lantern grin in a mummified face. "Oh, they're all supposed to be here, I can assure you of that. But Director Morris is upstairs in his office." She points a bony finger towards a set of rickety stairs. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to help a victor."

He better be. Because this victor is decidedly less than thrilled right now. I turn away wordlessly, climbing the creaking staircase that the gnarled crone indicated. A hall comes off the landing, and I follow it, growing increasingly uneasy with each wailing, muttering, animalistic sound that emanates from behind the closed doors surrounding me, reverberating down the vacant hall.

Some of the doors further on swing open, revealing terrible, inhuman faces, claw-like nails and yellow teeth, hissing tongues and matted hair, gaunt, wraith-like bodies struggling against chains and ropes and straitjackets, growling at the sight of me and howling incomprehensibly inside their tiny, bare cells. I see a man with empty, bloody sockets where his eyes should be, a hugely pregnant woman gnawing on her own arm, a crazed, screaming creature with a face so scarred and mutilated that I can't determine the gender at all. Teeth snap as I pass, cell doors open, people stumble into the hall, their chains clanking and groaning…a hand reaches out, sharp talons grasp onto my shirt, a slobbering woman laughs manically as she tugs at my clothes, and then I am running, shoving past the outstretched hands and deranged faces, bolting as though a pack of mutts is on my heels. The door at the end of the hall has a small placard with the name "Director Morris" on it, so I wrench it open and slam the door behind me, panting hard.

The ugly little man in the shadows starts, his expression a strange mix of annoyance, disbelief, and desire. His fat face shines with sweat, his mouth is contorted oddly, and his beady black eyes are rolled back in his head, almost in pleasure. For a moment I am confused – all I did was bust into his room, and I know I'm attractive and all, but I can't have _that _much of an effect on this man. And then I notice the woman on her knees in front of him, his hands clutching her tangled hair and holding her head level with his crotch as he thrusts his hips, hard. Oops. Apparently Director Morris is busy.

I clear my throat awkwardly, not sure what to do. The man glares at me, then sights, reluctantly – and rather violently, for a lover – shoving the woman away from him. "You'll finish later," he tells her, his voice authoritative. "What do you want?" he asks me as he fixes himself and zips up his pants.

"I'm looking for…" And then the woman on the floor scrambles away from the director on her hands and knees, huddling into a ball in the corner and staring at nothing with enormous, blank green eyes the color of sea foam and summer and sunshine on the water. "Annie?"

She says nothing – just sits there, her body pulled into herself as though she wants to disappear, shaking and staring and scratching at her skin, ripping at her lips until they bleed.

"Mr.…um, are you Finnick Odair?" the director asks.

With great effort, I keep my voice even. "I'm Finnick Odair."

"I knew it! You're my favorite victor. I know all about you"

"Do you know how many people I've killed?" I walk towards him slowly, and he gulps and backs up, running into the wall behind him.

"Um…eight, sir, in the arena. Six with the trident and two with your…your bare hands."

He glances uncertainly down at those bare hands as they twitch, encircling his throat before he can cry out. I move myself between him and Annie, not wanting her to see, knowing full well she can still hear the thud of his head as I bang it against the wall, over and over.

"Make that nice," I mutter at last as the man's body jerks desperately one final time. I toss him away, and his lifeless form slumps into a heap on the ground.

There is a wordless whimper behind me, and I spin around. Annie is clutching at her ears, pressing her eyes closed tightly and quaking uncontrollably. Her hair, much longer than I remember it being, hangs around her face in knots, her skin is so pale that she seems almost translucent, and I can see the sharp protrusions of her ribs, her collarbone, the hollows of her cheeks. She wears a ragged, colorless shift and no shoes, and what I can see of her skin is mottled with bruises, torn and cut and covered in dried blood. There are strange circular marks on her bare arms, those unforgettable eyes are wild and haunted, and she is so emaciated that I think I could wrap one hand around her waist. My blood pounds with rage as I look at what they've done to her, and I abruptly wish Morris was alive again, just so I could kill him a few more times.

"Annie," I say, as gently as I can, bending down towards her. "Oh, Annie…Come here, mermaid." I hold out my arms, wanting to wrap her up so tightly that no one else can touch her ever again.

She scoots forward on her knees, trembling. And then her fumbling hands go to my belt buckle, and she starts to undo it.

"What the hell?" I nearly scream, pushing her away from me harder than I intended and springing back. She falls heavily to the floor, landing hard on one shoulder. And then she just lies there, staring at me blankly, her lip still trickling blood, her eyes crazed and confused.

She doesn't recognize me, I realize suddenly, horrified. She has no clue who I am. She thinks I'm just like Morris and God only knows who else, coming up here in the dark to beat her into obedience and force her to – "Goddamn it!" I punch the wall furiously, kicking Morris's body for good measure.

Annie just keeps staring.

I don't know what to do, don't know what to say. And then I hear footsteps, the grunting, yowling voices of the poor creatures I passed in the hallway, and I know that the sounds of Morris's death have not gone unnoticed.

I scramble away from the body, forcing myself to focus. I find a key and a book of matches in the director's desk, and I make myself go into the hall and unlock the cell of the sanest-looking man I can find. I give him the key and tell him to handle the others, then hurry back into the office. Annie has not moved, but her face pales when I come through the door, and she starts hysterically shaking her head back and forth silently, _no no no no no_. I don't want to imagine what she has tried to refuse in this room.

I smash the desk in with my foot, break up the decaying wood, and pile it in the center of the floor. It doesn't take me long to coax a fire from the moldy lumber.

"Annie…" I begin. She lets out a panicked sound and stands up, running away from me on legs shaking from disuse and cowering in the corner like a frightened animal. "Annie, you've got to come with me."

I want to reassure her somehow, but there isn't time. The flames catch, igniting the desk and the wooden floor, and I know we've got to move. Now.

Coughing from the thick smoke surrounding us, I pick Annie up. She flails as I bundle her to my chest, kicking and hitting and trying to bite me, but I manage to keep hold of her, sprinting out the door, down the stairs, and out of that horrible house of sadists and shadows and screams. The former wards of the asylum are running through the woods in ones and twos, just as intent on escaping the place as I am. I see no sign of the hideous old woman, but I can't bring myself to care. She never tried to help Annie, never even bothered to feed her, by the looks of it…she let that filthy man force himself into Annie's sweet mouth, and for that, she deserves to burn a hundred times over.

I run to the car, sliding Annie into the passenger seat as carefully as I can and racing around to the driver's side. We are both in the vehicle when the building explodes in a fury of smoke and flames. I push down hard on the gas pedal and whip the car around, driving away from the charred, burning ruins as fast as I can.

In the seat beside me, Annie pulls her knees up to her chest and huddles in a little quaking ball, white-faced and wide-eyed and mute, pressing her forehead into the seatback as though she is trying to burrow into it. I feel something wrenching painfully inside my chest, and I wonder if I'm going to have a heart attack at the age of twenty.

When we are out of the woods and speeding back towards the center of Two, Annie looks at me – looks through me, really – and I think she is finally going to speak, but she simply throws up all over my lap, then curls back up in a ball again, feverish and shivering.

Tentatively, I reach out a hand to feel her forehead, and she jerks away so quickly that she slams her temple into the car window. I don't try to touch her again.

It takes me, Milly, Lyme, and the other insiders in Haymitch's rebel group three days to figure out a way to get Annie and me on a train headed back to Four without causing a scene or arousing suspicion, and in all that time, Annie just hides in corners with her hands pressed over her ears, refusing to eat or drink or move. She never says a word.


	14. Recovery

**Author's Note: A huge THANK YOU to everyone who is still reading this story (and those of you who just found it, as well!). I've been ridiculously busy with all my "day jobs," so writing has had to be put on the back burner...which is very difficult for me, since this story is just screaming to get out on the page. I hope you all like this next chapter...there are still some dark parts in it, but Annie is slowly recovering, with the help of a certain green-eyed victor. **

**I've had a few questions about this series, especially in terms of how it will end. I haven't quite figured that out myself yet, and I don't want to spoil it anyways...though I am seriously tempted to give Annie and Finnick their much-deserved happy ending, and veer a little off the canon ending. What does everyone think? Someone also asked if Annie was a virgin still. That question will be answered later in the story...I don't want to give too much away! As for Finnick's relationship with Johanna, Johanna is a lot more into him than he is into her. Finnick basically was lost until Annie came along, and although he has no clue how he feels for Annie right now, it is so much stronger and more real than he has ever felt about anyone else. His relationship with Johanna was based on just needing to be near someone and feel something for a while, and although he cares about her as a friend and feels bad that he is hurting her, he doesn't love her (or anything close to it). I hope that answers the question about Finnick and Johanna - basically, they were both using each other, for a while. And now Finnick would feel guilty if he did anything with Johanna, although he doesn't admit to himself that the reason he would feel guilty is because of Annie. (Only we get to know that...)  
**

**Enjoy! If you get the chance, reviews are always appreciated and loved!  
**

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**Chapter Fourteen: Recovery**

We arrive home to a train station empty of everyone but Mags, who looks tearful when she tries to take Annie's hands. Annie jerks away, wild-eyed, and bolts, disappearing down the path that leads towards the ocean. Mags meets my eyes.

"Fire in Two," she says.

I shrug casually. "Fires happen."

Never missing a thing, her sharp eyes flicker to the blisters on my hands, which got singed when I was struggling to haul Annie away from the flames, and I know she knows what I did, but she says nothing more on the subject.

"Where's Annie's father?" I ask Mags, thinking that he would have been pacing the platform, anxious for his only daughter to come home. But Mags just looks at me, slowly shaking her head.

I sink down onto the station's stone steps, my head in my hands. I haven't slept since taking Annie away from that hellhole. Every time I close my eyes, the images assault me again – the termite-eaten wood sagging under my feet, the filthy clothes and crazed faces of the men and women in the asylum, the whole place going up in smoke…Annie, terrified and uncomprehending, on her knees in front of that despicable excuse for a human being.

I feel defeated, and exhausted, and suddenly terrified as the full consequences of what I have done hit me like a lead weight. Annie's dad won't – _can't_ – take care of her; I know this for a fact, even though I've never actually spoken to the man. Mags is nearly eighty and in no condition to look after a shell-shocked, mute teenager; Cinna is in the Capitol and not necessarily my first choice anyways, despite (alright, because of) his obvious affection for Annie; and I wouldn't leave her with that beast of a brother if he were the last person left in Panem. Which leaves only one person that she knows, one person that she used to trust.

I groan and kneed my temples with my knuckles. "I don't know if I can do this, Mags."

"Do?" she questions. She puts a hand on my shoulder. "Did…enough, son. Now…go sleep," she commands.

It takes my bleary mind a minute to register her words. "Annie…?" I ask groggily, looking around, worried again. Where the hell did she go?

"I…find her. You sleep."

I allow myself to surrender to the suggestion, because I am exhausted nearly to the point of passing out. I don't even remember dragging myself from the train station to my house in the Victor's Village, but I must, because the next thing I know, I am waking up in my own warm feather bed, buried underneath a blanket I don't remember owning, dusk falling outside the window and the spicy smell of frying fish drifting up the stairs.

I pull on some (mercifully baggy) jeans and stumble to the bathroom to rinse my face. I notice that my towels have been changed, my tub scrubbed clean, my calendar changed to – No. That can't be right. I cannot have slept for almost three days straight.

"Mags, what's the date?" I holler as I walk down the stairs, suddenly wide awake. The tile floor is spotless, my counters sparkle, a bowl of fresh strawberries rests on the table, and my old, long-dead houseplants have been replaced with live, green ones. Mags has certainly been busy, I reflect, following the noise of the vacuum into the living room.

But it's not Mags pushing the vacuum over my carpet, and it's certainly not Mags' crinkled eyes widening in surprise when they land on me. The vacuum clatters to the ground, and Annie hurries to shut it off, startled. I stare at her.

"What are you doing?" I ask her.

She just shakes her head back and forth silently, her eyes straining to tell me something I don't understand.

"Annie, who let you in?"

She holds out a key – my spare key, I realize, the one I gave to Mags ages ago so she could water my plants when I'm away. This was way back when I actually had plants. I snatch it from her, upset that Mags didn't inform me of this. Why the hell is Annie vacuuming my house, anyways? I look around at the spotless room and the shining kitchen, remembering the clean countertops in the bathroom, the open curtains in my room, the blanket that someone pulled over me at some point when I was asleep.

I bristle, not comfortable with the fact that she had the nerve to barge like she owned the place when I wasn't even conscious. Besides, she has no right to be in _my _house, touching _my _things, trespassing in the only place besides the ocean that I've ever remotely thought of as my sanctuary. She has her own house now, somewhere on this street. Why won't she just stay there for a while and give me some peace?

My elbow knocks a picture off the shelf when I grab the key, and Annie springs forward to catch it. She falls onto her knees, cradling the picture frame in her hands and gazing at it with an indecipherable expression. Then she tilts her head at me questioningly, and I realize which picture it is. The photograph in the frame shows a younger me, my eyes shadowed but relieved, fishing with my father on my parents' old boat. My dad, whom I distinctly recall making a point of never using a trident around me after I returned from the Games, has a net in his hand, and his other arm is wrapped affectionately around my mom, who is smiling at the two of us in adoration. My sister, I recall, was the one behind the lens. As a new victor, I had money to burn, and she had always wanted to be a photographer. I bought her the camera for her birthday, and she was eager to try it out. She ran into the village from the docks that day, anxious to get her photos developed. We couldn't possibly know it at the time, but that was the only photograph of me and my parents that any of us would ever own.

Annie just keeps looking from me to the photograph. I am suddenly angry. I don't want her here, in my house, looking at my things, piecing together the broken fragments of my past, thinking hell knows what and not saying a word. "Annie, what the hell are you doing here?" My tone is unexpectedly harsh. Annie starts, trembling, and drops the frame on the ground. It doesn't shatter, doesn't break, barely even makes a noise – but the smiling faces of my dead parents stare up at me from the freshly-vacuumed carpet, and my eyes start to sting.

"Get. Out." Annie hastily sets the photograph back on the shelf, backing up until she hits the couch, her eyes frantic and clouded, her hands shaking. "Now!" I nearly shout.

She flinches visibly, and I have one moment to take in her gaunt frame and the patched dress of Lyme's that for some reason she is still wearing, her scarred arms scratched bloody and the newly swollen bruise on her cheek, her bare feet and her fearful expression and that unsettling way she is chewing on her lower lip, and then she bolts like a terrified animal, fleeing as fast as she can and slamming the door shut behind her.

I stare after her for all of ten seconds, my heart pounding in my chest as shame floods through me, before I shout her name. "Annie! Annie, don't…Come back, Annie. Please come back." But the only answer is the sound of my door swinging on its hinges in the sea breeze.

I race outside and down the street, not bothering to knock on Mags' door before letting myself in. My mentor is knitting in her living room, listening to a scratchy music program on the radio. She looks up when I enter and mumbles, "Should make you a decent shirt, boy."

I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest self-consciously, because self-conscious is probably the last word that anyone would use to describe Finnick Odair. I really do need to remember to wear clothing when I go out in public, though, especially when I'm not in the Capitol.

"Mags, why was Annie in my house?"

"Cleaning."

"Yes, I gathered that. But why? I could hire someone to clean for me, if I wanted to. We all could."

Mags nods. "Hired…An-nie. We decided." She gestures around broadly, and I gather that by "we," she means all the victors from Four. All but me, that is.

"Why?" I feel like a two-year-old, but it is the only thing I can think of to say.

"Poor child…needs something to do. Needs money, too. Won't let us…give her. See…old clothes? Sad, Finnick, so sad…"

I understand the first part, the part about needing something to do. Filling up time once consumed by the everyday struggle to survive is a challenge for every new victor. But the rest of it makes no sense at all. Annie is a victor. She should have more money than she knows what to do with, just like the rest of us. So this means one of two things. Either Snow, frustrated that his latest victor has gone insane, decided not to give her the victor money, or someone else claiming to be acting on Annie's behalf is confiscating her earnings.

"Mags, my house."

The old woman snorts. "Always a mess." I can't argue with that.

"It's…look, it makes me uncomfortable," I elaborate. "I don't like the idea of people walking around my house when I'm not conscious. She was touching my things," I reiterate. "She…she covered me up with a blanket, for goodness sake!" I know perfectly well that I sound ridiculous – the last time I checked, covering someone up with a blanket wasn't a crime. But I don't know any other way to explain what I'm feeling. "It's not right, anyways, Mags, and you know it. She's a victor. She shouldn't be acting like an Avox, cleaning homes to earn a living. She shouldn't be working at all. And she certainly shouldn't be so thin that she looks like she'll blow over as soon as the first storm hits."

"No money," Mags tells me sadly.

I roll my eyes. I've already heard this. "I _don't_ want her cleaning my house," I press, trying to make Mags understand. "I can't do this anymore. She's scared of everything. She doesn't talk. I don't even think she recognizes me anymore. She went in my bedroom without asking and…and…she-"

"Covered you up," Mags finishes, her tone decidedly lighter than I feel the conversation warrants. Her eyes gleam with concealed humor, as though she knows something I don't. Which, Johanna would point out, isn't all that difficult of a feat to accomplish.

But I do know that Annie did cover me up, and clean my house, and fry fish for me, and I am determined to hate her for it. To hate her for her kindness, and her quiet acceptance of my intrinsic disgusting nature, and her emerald-turquoise eyes that seem to burn my already-blackened soul. "I hate it!" I burst out, no longer caring if Mags realizes how awful I am. I'm sure she already did a long time ago anyways. "I hate her helpless eyes and her bruises and her refusal to speak, I hate her lost innocence and how she's always so tragically sweet no matter what I say or do, I hate how she still hasn't blamed me for everything I've done to ruin her life. I…I hate her."

My voice is about as convincing as one of Caesar Flickerman's faux-concerned interviews with the Hunger Games tributes. Mags narrows her eyes, and I turn to see Annie in the hall, staring at me. I know she heard every word, and I am instantly flooded with guilt. Her arms are bleeding freely now, the scabs gouged off to create oozing trails of sticky red blood, and a new set of bruises rings her neck, bruises that look suspiciously like fingerprints, as though someone had tried to strangle her.

I start to say something, taking a step towards Annie and desperately searching for the words to apologize, but she spins away and runs out the door. I spend the rest of the evening alone on the beach, too ashamed to speak to Mags, trying unsuccessfully to get the image of Annie's hurt, betrayed eyes out of my head.

I wander back to my unusually clean house after nightfall. I can't stand the sight of the fish Annie fried, or the fresh food she filled my cabinets with, so I toss the fish out to an alley cat and settle on a few glasses of whiskey instead.

It is past ten when Mags comes over, letting herself in unannounced and unceremoniously yanking the bottle out of my shaky grasp.

"You seen Annie?" she asks me.

I shake my head. "Don't thinkshe everwanna see me 'gain," I slur. "Right 'bout it, too. I'm not good…not good 'nuff for her. All I'm good for is fucking horny Capitol sluts, and An-Annie knows it."

Mags slaps me lightly on the cheek. "Watch…language, son."

I grin up at her sloppily, but the pain behind her eyes quickly wipes my smirk away. "Got to stop it, Finnick. She needs you."

I roll my eyes. "No one needs me. They just need my dick for ten minutes."

Mags shoots me the sort of disapproving look that my mother had down to an art. "Fine, son. You want to…be child – stay here and leave her alone. An-nie needs…needs man in her life, Finnick. Not another cowardly boy to hurt her…break her…treat her less than nothing." With one last pointed look specifically designed to make me feel like the biggest douchebag on the planet, Mags leaves, taking my whiskey bottle with her.

I pull on a jacket and spend the rest of the night searching for Annie. She is nowhere in the Victor's village – when I go to the once-empty house across from mine, the house that Annie is supposed to be living in, I find her father and brother and a dozen other rowdy men drinking and playing cards and gambling in the front room. There is no sign that Annie has ever even set foot in the home.

Her brother Michael greets me with a burp and a playful jab to the shoulder, introducing me to the crowd as "his old friend from school," even though I loathed him all through high school. We were both popular, but while I was unintentionally popular due to my good looks, witty humor, and trident skills (and later, of course, my status as a victor), Michael was one of those guys who made himself popular by force, pushing the nerdy kids around, making fun of anyone different from him, and making out with any girl he wanted.

I ignore his offer of a cold beer and ask where Annie is. He gives me a blank look. "Your sister," I tell him. "Where is she?"

He shrugs, letting out a short, cruel burst of laughter. "Back in the loony bin, if she knows what's good for her." He gives me a curious look. "Why? You got a sudden yearning for something insane and stupid?" He makes an exaggerated humping motion with his hips, and I punch him right in the mouth. It takes three men to pull me off him, and when they do, my nose and his mouth are both streaming blood.

A thin-haired man I recognize as Annie's father, the town drunk, lurches towards me on unsteady feet. "What's this about, Odair? No fighting in my home."

"Only drinking!" one of the other men yells boisterously, to a chorus of "Here, here's" and clinking glasses.

"It's not your home," I say, wiping at my nose with my sleeve. "It's Annie's. And I want to know where she is."

"Not here," her dad says, as though this is a revelation to me. "She ain't my problem anymore. She's a victor now. Though she's still scared of the whole damn world." The men laugh as though this is hilarious.

I grab him by the collar of his shirt. "She's your _daughter_," I growl out. "After everything that she's been through, how could you possibly stand there and tell me-"

He wrenches free of my grasp, launching into a boozy rant about how Annie's never been good for anything, how she humiliated the family with her "atrocious performance in the Games," how she'd worn out her welcome with him years ago with her crazy ideas and stupid books, her constant need to eat and her inability to just shut up and stay out of everyone else's way. I can't believe what I am hearing.

"This is her house," I say again. "And the victor money's hers, too. Not yours to spend on booze."

Her dad laughs, his drunken breath repulsive when it hits me. "Don't hear her complaining, do ya?"

Michael cracks his knuckles and spits blood on the ground. "Now you'd better be leavin', Finnick Odair," he tells me.

The idiotic part of me really wants to pound him into the dust right here and now, but some smarter voice inside tells me that I shouldn't do it when he is backed up by a bunch of strong, drunken fishermen. Besides, I have more important things to do than pick a fight with this pathetic man, anyways. I have to find Annie.

It proves harder than I would have thought possible. I search for her all through the night, but she is nowhere to be found. I refuse to sleep, or eat, or even change my clothes until we find her, alerting the Peacekeepers to her absence and screaming at the mayor until he offers a reward to anyone with knowledge of her whereabouts.

Two days later, Mags is coaxing me to eat (as in, forcibly stuffing food down my throat and preventing me from trying to order the Peacekeepers to drain the ocean to look for Annie) when a fat woman I vaguely recognize as the director of the Community Home knocks on the door. All it takes is three words – "We found her" – and I am running through the streets of District Four, racing to the Home as fast as I can. It is a horrible place of dust and hunger and crying children, and I am relieved when the man who answers the door tells me that she is out around the back. "I'll show you, Mr. Odair," he says, but I shake my head.

"No need; I can find it." The Community Home doesn't really have a yard, just a brown patch of dirt with scraggly attempts at produce trying to push their way through the hard ground, a row of wash basins set up below faded clotheslines, and a woodshed with broken windows and no door. I find Annie huddled in a dark, cobweb-filled corner of that shed, shivering and ragged, covered in dirt and bruises and dried blood. She is sleeping fitfully, gnawing on her lips and clawing at her skin and whimpering wordlessly, and one arm is wrapped tightly around a scrawny orange kitten that licks Annie's face when the girl curls up around him.

"Annie…" I can't say anything else. My heart feels like it is coming to pieces inside me, and I am filled with a tormenting guilt far worse than any brought on by screwing half the population of Panem. I scoop Annie up in my arms, disturbed by how unbelievably light she is, and take her back to the Victor's Village, ignoring the Home worker who asks if he can help me with anything. They didn't help Annie for how long when she was their ward, and I doubt they genuinely care about helping her now, beyond the fact that she's a wealthy victor and the famous Finnick Odair is concerned about her.

I pause when I reach the row of houses that constitutes the village, unsure where to go. I certainly can't take her to her house, not with her dad and that pathetic excuse for a brother there, and I don't think taking her to my house will look good to anyone from the Capitol who might find out about it. Finally, I walk over to Mags' place.

My mentor lets out a startled scream when she sees Annie, who curls up against my chest as though she is trying to make herself so small that she actually turns invisible. I grit my teeth, abruptly furious.

"Get out," I tell the Home Manager, who is hovering around us, prattling on about how Annie never was stable and always seemed somewhat out of it, and how the girl was always so afraid of everything that no one ever dreamed she stood a chance of becoming a victor.

"She was afraid because of the way everyone treated her in that shithole you call a Community Home," I snarl, turning on the woman. "And don't you dare try to tell me how kind you all were to her. The first time I met her, you know what she did?" The woman shakes her head mutely, and I see the terror in her eyes. I wonder if certain chapters of my Games are replaying through her head – specifically, the parts where I killed people. I hope so. "The first time I met her, she thanked me for not hitting her." The blood drains from the woman's face, incriminating her, as I once again remember that day on the fog-obscured beach when Annie made strange smacking motions across her face and handed me flowers in appreciation for not doing that to her. "Now get out of her. Before I do to you every last thing you saw fit to do to her."

I don't have to say it again. The woman hurries out the door, refusing to look at either me or Mags as she leaves. Neither of us spares her a second thought.

"Put her…your room," Mags mumbles as I take Annie up the stairs and into the guest bedroom, the spare room that I used to sleep in right after my own Games, when the nightmares were at their worst and the stains of children's blood still seemed to saturate my hands no matter how many times I scrubbed them raw. I've slept in this room on and off since being crowned a victor – on days when I couldn't stand the empty silence of my own home, especially in the months following my parents' deaths; when the memories of fingernails clawing at my back and teeth biting into my shoulder kept me up long past midnight; when I simply needed the quiet comfort of a hot cup of tea and the company of one person who I knew would never judge me.

A good amount of my junk is still in the room – clothes spilling out of the drawers, most of which probably wouldn't even fit me anymore, old books stacked in a corner along with a couple of journals I filled with self-loathing diatribes right after my Games and vowed to never open again, a glass bowl that once held a goldfish, a fishing knife and a frayed length of rope on the dresser, posters of animals and beach scenes decorating the walls, and a hand-scrawled sign taped to the door that reads: "Finnick's Room," just in case no one could tell.

I pull back the soft blue comforter and gently lay Annie in the bed. She stirs at the movement and sits up suddenly, her eyes flying open. She looks around frantically at the unfamiliar surroundings, terrified, her hand reaching out as though to pet a cat that is not there. When she sees me, she covers her ears with her hands and cowers against the headboard.

Damn it. I feel like punching something, but restrain myself, not wanting to scare her any further. "Annie, I…I don't want you to be afraid. Please, Annie," I plead weakly. "I'm not going to hurt you anymore, mermaid, I swear. And I don't hate you. I never could. I just want to…to take care of you."

A small noise at the door alerts me to Mags' presence. When she looks at me, I notice that her eyes are moist. "Need to get…clean," Mags says at last, holding out the bandages, antiseptic ointment, and icepacks in her hands.

I glance at Annie, taking in her fearful expression and the way she is shaking. "You should probably do that," I tell Mags. "I doubt she wants my hands anywhere near her. I…I'll find her some new clothes, or something." Annie is still wearing the old dress of Lyme's that the victor from Two had her change into after we escaped the madhouse. It's better than the straitjacket she was wearing before that, but not by much – the dress is ripped and frayed, and much too big for her, and one strap is broken, so the material falls off her shoulder, exposing a nasty bruise on her delicate skin.

"Want…shower?" Mags asks Annie kindly.

Annie's eyes fill with primal fear, and she shakes her head no, over and over again, so violently I am afraid it might fall right off her neck. She scrambles with the covers until she manages to free herself, falling off the bed and crawling over to me. She kneels on the ground and clutches desperately at my legs, her eyes silently imploring me not to make her get in the water, her whole body shuddering.

"No showers," I tell Mags emphatically. Annie slumps against my knees in relief. I am beyond surprised that she is clinging to me like this – that she wants anything to do with me at all, really – but Mags does not seem to be.

"You come…come here, dear," she says to Annie. "Finnick gets clothes…come right back."

Annie seems to be one of the only people besides me who can actually understand what Mags says, and I am glad of it. She stands up shakily and obediently goes over to Mags.

I leave, heading into one of the clothing shops in the town square and picking out the nicest, most colorful things I can find – a yellow blouse with a ruffled, off-white skirt, a pair of jeans that I hope are small enough to fit Annie's tiny frame, a cozy blue sweater the exact color of the sea, a soft blush-colored dress with a full skirt composed of hundreds of small, hand-embroidered flower petals, a bright green sundress that laces up the back intricately, a pair of comfortable-looking leather sandals and the beaded flip-flops that are ubiquitous in Four. I am about to check out when I notice a sparkly hairclip near the register, and I buy that, too, imagining how the glittering white gems will shine against Annie's silky hair.

I don't even bother paying attention to the price, knowing that nothing I purchase will ever be enough to gain Annie's trust back. I'll have to earn that myself, over time. And I don't care if it takes a month or a year or an entire lifetime; I promise myself that I will do it. I will earn Annie's trust again. I head back to Mags', trying not to think about why exactly I am so concerned with Annie Cresta's opinion of me, when I could care less that most people in Panem think I am nothing but a lewd, licentious playboy with hard abs and golden hair.

I pick up my pace when I pass the Community Home, not wanting to think of how miserable Annie looked when I found her there, or of the fact that it was my fault she had ended up there, all cold and alone and suffering, in the first place. And then I remember the little kitten and double back, hurrying to the woodshed, snatching up the animal, and depositing him inside one of the shopping bags before he has a chance to scratch at me. The kitten wriggles the whole way back, and I struggle to keep him inside the bag, but I don't mind the extra effort, because I keep picturing how delighted Annie will be when she sees that I have rescued her friend for her.

I am strangely eager to give Annie her new clothes and show her the kitten, hoping to coax a word or at least a smile out of her, and I make it back to the Victor's Village in record time. But when I push open the door, opening the bag with the cat in it and setting the yowling creature free before he manages to claw the skin off my arms, I immediately forget all about my gifts for Annie.

Mags is bustling around the kitchen, heating up the leftovers from our dinner, and Annie sits at the kitchen table, nervously wringing her hands, her skin (or what I can see of it, at least) covered in bandages and creams, her wild, unwashed hair pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head, emphasizing her high, hollow cheekbones and her wide, haunting eyes. But none of this is what makes me stare at her, or what causes my mouth to grow dry as chalk.

No, what makes me stop dead in my tracks is the fact that Annie is wearing a soft, faded black T-shirt and baggy grey pajama pants. _My_ T-shirt and pajama pants, as a matter of fact. And seeing her in my well-worn clothes does something to me that I can't begin to explain. It makes my heart beat faster, my breath hitch, my stomach jump. It makes me want to smile.

Annie's eyes dart up to meet mine, full of fear, and I can tell that she thinks I am going to yell at her for being in my clothes, just like I yelled at her for being in my house. She scrambles up, knocking her leg against the chair, and hides in the corner, as far from me as she can get, her trembling hands pulling frantically at her clothing, her eyes crying "Don't punish me" as clearly as if she were shouting it. She is tugging her shirt up, and I get a glimpse of her bare, mottled stomach before I realize what she is trying to do.

"Don't, Annie, leave them…Mags!" I yell, sounding like a five –year-old calling for his mother, because I have no clue how my body will react if Annie strips her clothes off right here in front of me, and I'm pretty sure this is the wrong time and place to find out.

No. Wait. That's wrong. That's all wrong. I should _never_ want to find out. I _don't_ want to find out. Right? Right.

"Mags!" I shout again, hurrying out of the kitchen to dump my purchases somewhere else. I put them in the living room and sink down onto the couch, drained and inexplicably panicked, listening to Mags calm Annie down in the other room.

"…alright, dear," she tells her, the old woman's garbled voice faint. "You keep on…No, not mad, An-nie." I wonder if she means that I'm not mad, or that Annie isn't. I wonder which is true.

A little while later, Annie reappears, standing hesitantly at the entrance to the room, her eyes anxious. She carries two mugs in her hands and looks at me cautiously.

I pat the sofa cushion beside me. "It's okay. You can come in. You…you're safe, here."

She comes over and holds one of the cups out to me, still uncertain. I take it, inhaling the sweet, rich aroma of thick melted chocolate. My throat seizes up as I take a sip. She remembers.

She remembers hot chocolate, she associates it with me, she knows who I am and that we like to drink cocoa together…she remembers. Somewhere deep down, buried beneath years of neglect and the horrors of her Games and everything they did to her in that appalling asylum, she's still Annie.

She eventually sits down next to me, sipping her hot chocolate delicately and eyeing me as though I am a dangerous predator who might attack at any moment. She doesn't say anything at all, but as we sit together, she gradually relaxes, and when Mags comes in and suggests a game of cards, Annie joins in, solidly whipping us both. We stay up fairly late, because I get the sense that Annie doesn't want to go to bed, and I know the feeling.

I am dealing the cards for another round when an orange ball of fur scoots into the room, darting straight at Annie. The girl's eyes light up, and she pets the cat and hugs him close, ruffling his fur and scratching under his neck until she has him purring in ecstasy. Mags glances at me. "Your…cat?" she asks.

I shake my head. "He's Annie's. I thought she might want to have him here with her."

Annie nods enthusiastically at this, and her mouth twitches up in the barest ghost of her radiant smile. "But you're picking up every dead mouse he drags in," I add, smiling so she knows I'm just kidding. I wink playfully, and Annie ducks her head, her cheeks reddening in a way that makes me feel as though a million small rubber balls are bouncing around in my gut. Great. I told Mags I wasn't hungry. She shouldn't have made me eat dinner. Now I've probably got indigestion or food poisoning or something.

"Go…bed?" Mags questions, but I suddenly spring up, remembering the rest of my gifts for Annie.

"Wait a second," I tell the two women. I hand the bags to Annie. "These are for you, mermaid."

Annie takes the clothes out of the bags one by one, her eyes growing slightly brighter with each new item she sees. She hugs the green sundress to her and spins around with the blush one, the soft material of the skirt flying out around her. Mags meets my eyes and gives me a nod of approval.

Annie tries on the shoes, which thankfully fit her, then starts folding up the clothes. "There's one more," I say. She reaches to the very bottom of the bag and pulls out the hairclip. Her eyes shine in a way that inexplicably tugs at my heart, and she holds the clip in her palm as delicately as though it were a fragile seashell, the smallest hint of that smile tugging at the corners of her mouth again. Mags gives me an indecipherable look when she sees the hairclip. I'm not quite sure how to interpret that. My mentor doesn't have much hair left, but maybe she wants one, too?

"Come here, mermaid," I tell Annie. I sit on the couch, and she sits on the ground in between my feet. I untie the elastic band around her bun and comb out her incredibly long hair with my fingers until it is tangle-free, then braid it and pin it up with the shiny clip. She touches her hair wonderingly when I am done and shoots me a quizzical look that I interpret as "Where'd you learn to style hair?"

"Hey," I say defensively, shrugging. "I do have three nieces, you know." She didn't know this – most people don't. My nieces are little and sweet and innocent, much like Annie herself, and I do my best to keep them out of the public eye. I can tell that Annie likes the idea of the three small girls, though, and I instantly know that my nieces would adore Annie, mute or not. "You'll meet them, mermaid," I promise her. "Would you like that?"

She nods eagerly, then runs to the TV, which Mags rarely turns on unless we are required to suffer through a mandatory program. She turns her head from left to right, back and forth and back again, and I realize that she is looking at her hair in the screen.

"Very pretty," Mags assures her. "You…always so lovely. Sleep now."

Annie nods and gives Mags a hug. Her blue-green eyes meet mine for a minute, uncertain, and then she is in my arms, clutching me to her as if she were drowning again, and I can smell the faint salty scent that still clings to her skin even after so much time away from the ocean. I'm not sure which of us initiated the hug, but I know that Annie is the first to let go, her cheeks flushing as she extricates herself from our embrace. I release her, watching as she trudges up the stairs, trying to fight down the sudden surge of alarm that swells inside me, the fear that once she is out of my sight and torn from my grasp, she will never return to me again.

Mags is still looking at me funny. "What?" I ask her. She mumbles some incomprehensible nonsense about diamonds. "What?" I repeat.

"You bought…hairclip…diamonds."

I gape at her. "Uh…"

Mags chuckles, shaking her head lovingly. "Didn't notice…price?"

I shrug. "I didn't pay attention." I turn away, not wanting to meet her amused eyes any longer. "I just wanted to do something nice for her," I mumble.

She laughs again. "You're…good man, Finnick." For the second time tonight, I find myself wrapped up in a warm, affectionate hug. And for the second time tonight, I am not the first to let go.

Annie slowly recovers over the next couple of months, as much as anyone can ever recover from the terrors she has been through. She sleeps in my room at Mags' house, so I go to my own house at night, but I spend as much time at Mags' place as I can, heading over there early in the mornings before Annie jerks out of the torturous nightmares that plague her sleep and leaving late at night after I have sat down on the foot of her bed and stroked her forehead until I manage to get her to drift off into restless slumber.

I try to coax her into doing things with me and Mags – playing cards or board games, making puzzles, working in Mags' garden, collecting shells, taking long walks down by the beach. Occasionally I can get her to come to the market with me, sit on the dock and watch the fishermen, or hang out at the homes of some of the other victors, but it is obvious that she feels uncomfortable, even scared, around other people. Mags and I seem to be the only two people she is at ease with, and even then, her mind drifts, tormenting her with vivid memories of horrible, unspeakable things. I know that she is reliving many of the same terrors that replay in all victors' minds when we first come out of the arena; the difference is, for her, the memories never seem to fade in the slightest.

Mags teases me for spending so much time with Annie, feigning hurt when Annie leaves Mags' side the instant I come through the door, rushing to clean the fish I have just hauled in or spending half the day sitting beside me, waving a hair ribbon at the kitten as I tell her about the latest news and District gossip, how my day went, my childhood dreams and sorrows, the way the cool water felt on my skin when I swam in the ocean earlier…anything that pops into my mind, really. I don't feel the need to censor myself much with her anymore, probably because there is little chance that she'll ever tell anyone a thing that I say. She seems to have entirely lost the ability to speak, despite still having her tongue intact.

I enjoy Annie's quiet company, and I feel guilty about leaving her, even though Mags is always there, because there is only so much a nearly-eighty-year-old woman can do to help her, and because Annie rips at her skin when she's upset and sits for hours on end staring wide-eyed at horrors only she can see, gnawing her lips bloody and covering her ears with her hands. Sometimes she disappears for hours, until I find her cowering somewhere in a dark corner of Mags' attic, hugging her kitten, crying noiselessly, and shaking like a leaf, blood saturating her clothing.

Exactly two and a half months since I brought Annie home from the asylum in Two, my phone rings early one dreary morning, and I jolt out of bed, my heart pounding in my chest. I know what the call means before I even answer it.

When I go to Mags' house later that morning, Annie can tell that something is bothering me. We are playing this District Four game where you have to stack up all these rectangular wood blocks in a particular pattern, then pull them out one by one without causing the entire tower to fall down, but my hands keep shaking, despite all my efforts to control them. When I knock the stack of blocks down for the fourth time, Annie creeps close to me, putting a hand on my knee and gazing up at me with liquid green eyes full of concern.

I heave a sigh and fiddle with the blocks, unable to meet her gaze. "Annie," I tell her at last. "Annie, mermaid…I've gotta go to the Capitol, tomorrow. So I…I won't be here, anymore."

Her face grows pale, and she nearly throws herself at me, grabbing me by one arm with both hands and pulling at me as though she will never let me go, shaking her head rapidly back and forth, wordlessly begging me not to leave.

"Annie, I've got to…Annie, stop it, come on." I work her hands free of my arm, which is starting to hurt. She may be small, but she's surprisingly strong when she wants to be. Her entire body crumples, her face falls, and her eyes – her eyes just die. There's no other way to describe it. She runs down the hall and out the door before I can say another word.

I tell Mags not to come see me off, because I don't want her to, and because she has better things to be doing, anyways. She needs to find Annie. Mags mumbles something about how she'll come out when she's ready. I must make a face, because she puts her gnarled fingers against my cheeks and reminds me, "Smile, Finnick. Best way to keep her safe…keep us all safe…what you're doing."

I keep this in the back of my mind as I screw my way through another round of Capitol patrons, pretending to be attracted to their surgically altered bodies, feigning interest in their meaningless lives, and forcing myself to laugh the few times someone mentions the "crazy girl from your District." Most people in the Capitol seem to have completely forgotten Annie, and I realize that, as much as it may have hurt her, my plan worked. I found a way to keep her from Snow, to keep her from the grasping hands of the powerful men and women with their dyed skin and freakish tattoos, the men and women I have to pleasure every time I set foot in the Capitol. I found a way to keep her from becoming me.

When I am finally allowed to go home again, I don't even bother dropping my things off at my own house before sprinting over to Mags', barging in and demanding, "Where is she?"

Mags looks up from the soup she is cooking and frowns at me. "Nice to see you, too."

"Hi, Mags," I say perfunctorily. "Where's Annie?"

Mags grins a toothless grin and shrugs. "Went…somewhere. Will be back. Likes to walk, you know."

I actually didn't know that. Obviously Annie's made a little bit of progress, if she's willing to get out of the house long enough to go for a walk.

I nod, practically falling into a chair and letting Mags make tea and fuss over how tired I look. I tell her a little bit about the Capitol – not about my lovers, of course, or the parties that I can never seem to completely remember, but about the latest rumors regarding the next Games, which victors I saw when I was there, which Gamemakers have been let go and which have been promoted. "Oh, yeah," I say, "I almost forgot. Cinna came to see me."

Mags chuckles. "What…wanted?"

I shake my head. "I'm still not sure. He asked about Annie, at first, told me to tell her he was thinking about her. But then…he said he wanted to warn me."

"Warn?"

"Yeah. He kept waving around some of those trashy magazines with pictures of me on them, pointing to…well, you know…"

"The girls."

"Uh-huh. And saying that if Annie ended up in their place, even being a victor couldn't save me." Mags nods, as though she actually understands what Cinna meant. "It's like he doesn't get it, that that's why I said all those things about her being insane."

Mags shakes her head. "Means…something different."

"What?"

The door swings open, and a sleek, white-clothed blur races barefoot past the kitchen, oblivious to me and Mags. The old woman nods again and says, "Go."

But Annie is nowhere to be found. I search all through Mags' huge victor house, over and over again, and by nightfall I am frantic, screaming her name, upending chairs, and overturning tables, terrifying her little kitten half to death when I flip over a large cardboard box that Annie has turned into his bed.

I am about ready to storm into the house that should be hers and confront her father again when Mags lets out a shriek from the laundry room. I run in, barely noticing the dirty clothes that the startled Mags dropped all over the floor, and find Annie unconscious in the dryer, wearing a long, pale white dress and curled up like an asphyxiated little angel.

I yank her out, and the dead weight of her body collapses heavily against me. "Finnick," Mags warns, seeing something in my face that puts her on guard, but I ignore her, shaking Annie and shouting at her. She just slumps down onto the floor, not moving, not breathing. I kneel beside her, panicked.

"Goddamn it, Annie, don't do this to me!" I shout hoarsely, gripping her shoulders so hard I can almost hear her bones cracking.

She gasps in a sudden, stuttering breath, and her eyes fly open. She jerks back, startled by how close my face is to hers, or maybe just by the fact that she's still alive, and I grab her, holding her so tightly that she can't move even when she tries to squirm away. "What the hell were you thinking?" I snarl at her, furious, taking in every last inch of her, trying to reassure myself that she is really here. "You could have died!"

She keeps looking at me, her eyes sad, and it finally dawns on me. "You _wanted _to die." I sink onto the floor and look at her, hoping that she'll deny it. But she just tilts her head at me in affirmation. Suddenly, I lean forward, gripping her chin in my hands. Mags shakes her head, mumbling about me scaring her, but I am too far gone to listen, and anyways, I don't want to. I can't.

"No, Annie," I tell her. "No more. No more hurting yourself, no more hiding from the world, no more being so quiet that everyone forgets you exist, and absolutely no more trying to kill yourself! Do you understand me?" She says nothing and tries to turn away, but I force her to face me. "Do you, Annie?"

She nods once, barely – I'm holding her jaw so tightly that she can hardly move her head. Her eyes are scared and full of tears.

Suddenly ashamed, I let go of her. She sort of tumbles onto the carpet, her body weak. She looks dazed, and keeps gazing at me in something that looks a lot like confusion. Not as if she doesn't know who I am, but more like she's not sure why I am here at all.

"I…I'm so sorry, mermaid," I say softly, reaching out to touch her gently on the shoulder. "I don't want to upset you. You scared me, that's all. And it's just…it's just…Annie, I want you to _live_. Not just be alive. And certainly not be…not alive." She comes closer, watching me with concentration, and I know that she is listening to every word I am saying. "I…I'll make things better, Annie, I will. Look, I'm here, I'm back now, and I have some presents for you, and…and…I'll buy you more – more clothes, and pretty jewelry, and sparkly things…you like sparkly things, right?" She nods, once, uncertainly. "And we can go fishing, and play cards, and do more things together, and I'll be nicer to you, I swear-"

Mags sniffles, and I see a tear leak down her wrinkled face. "Shut it, Mags," I half-growl, my face reddening.

Annie tugs at my hands, and I look down at her. The sorrow and self-loathing all over her face cracks my heart into pieces. I wonder suddenly if she understood where I had gone, when I went to the Capitol. I get the feeling she thought I would never come back. She squeezes my hands tightly, those huge green eyes sad, so sad. "No, don't blame yourself, mermaid. Don't."

She leaps up suddenly, and Mags stops me from following her. "Fine now," my mentor murmurs, tapping my hand gently. "Needs to be alone. You…not losing her."

After a few minutes, Annie rushes back in, carrying a huge mug of hot chocolate, a loaf of freshly-baked seaweed bread tucked under her arm. She presses them into my hands and looks up at me with pleading eyes – a wordless apology for trying to suffocate herself.

"Mermaid…" I set the food down, reaching out for Annie. She backs away slightly, as if frightened, then comes near again and lets me hold her. I stroke her long, smooth hair, breathing in her sweet scent, and she presses her forehead into my chest. I hug her until she stops shaking, then convince her to sit down and eat with me and Mags before she goes to sleep.

I don't remember falling asleep in her room, but I must, because when her body spasms and she lurches out of her nightmares with a soundless gasp in the middle of the night, I jerk awake and find myself sprawled facedown across the foot of her bed, my hand clenched firmly around hers, determined to never let go again.

I stay near Annie when I am home, reluctant to let her out of my sight for more than a few minutes. She seems better when we are together, more like the girl I remember from before she went into the arena, and there is something about her gentle, caring, quiet (okay, silent) disposition that infuses me with a strange sense of peace in the moments when I feel myself spiraling down into the ever-present darkness.

Annie still won't go in the water, but she comes to the beach with me every day, making nets and collecting seaweed, stringing shells together to create bracelets and necklaces and elaborate hanging decorations for all the door frames in my house. She insists on cleaning every victor's home, which earns her the undying affection of everyone but bothers me to no end, because she doesn't seem to realize that she's a victor too, not an Avox, no matter how much she may act like one. She never cleans my house when I'm awake, though; but whenever I sleep in until noon, I wake to a bright, clean home, a house that for once actually looks like it has been lived in and cared for instead of a haunted frat house, full of nothing but liquor bottles and ghosts.

One day we are hanging out at Mags' house, waiting for the other victors to come over for one of the group dinners that Mags insists on hosting periodically, when Annie races over and pulls me to the couch. I notice that the television is on, showing an interview I did with Caesar Flickerman the last time I was in the Capitol, and Annie's eyes are bright, because I am on the screen. She points excitedly, and I try to look enthusiastic as I watch Caesar ask me about my favorite hair products and other equally ridiculous nonsense.

"And I'm assuming that style worked well for you last night?" he asks with an amused smile.

Annie's eyes fly open and she covers her mouth with her hand as the interview image cuts away to show video footage of me mindlessly fondling a busty socialite's cleavage and pulling another half-naked girl down for a prolonged make-out session. I'm not used to seeing myself on screen like this, and even I am surprised by how dead my eyes look in contrast with my randy, over-the-top behavior. It amazes me that the girls I'm partying with on TV don't notice.

But Capitol citizens don't notice anything that doesn't involve their own narrow little worlds of glamour and glitter and the Games. And Annie, of course, notices everything.

She watches me with those big, emerald eyes – watches the superficial me on the screen as I flirt and booze and smooch my way through the Capitol, watches the "real" me – as real as Finnick Odair gets, anyhow – stare accusingly at her, determined not to let her make me feel…however it is I feel when I see the pain in those jewel-like eyes of hers.

A woman with flamboyant red hair and equally red nails leans against the televised me, scratching a trail of lust down my bare chest, leaving inflamed claw marks in the wake of her fiery fingernails. I glare at Annie, daring her to confront me about my disgusting behavior.

But her eyes just gaze at me with even more gentleness than normal, and she shakes her head sadly, reaching up to lightly brush the back of her hand along my chest (which for once is actually covered by a T-shirt). Her touch is so soft, so unbelievably tender, that I can't help letting out a guttural groan under her hands. She tilts her head at me, then curls into my side, nestling close against me and laying her head directly over my heart.

After a while, she looks up at me again, her sorrowful eyes struggling to communicate something. I don't know how to make things better. I don't even know what's wrong. She touches my chest again sadly, her fingers fluttering from my abs up my ribcage to my pecs, and I realize what she's trying to say. _Gentle,_ she's telling me wordlessly. _Soft. Kind. _This_ is how you should be treated. _This_ is what you deserve._

I stand up abruptly, pushing her away and storming out of the room, because I know I don't deserve the least bit of gentleness from anyone. Especially not from Annie.

Annie wears her green sundress and a matching green bow around her ponytail, looking especially mermaid-like, and especially confused, during dinner. I'm not sure if it's my recent behavior that's upsetting her or the fact that there are so many people present in Mags' cozy kitchen. There are twelve living victors from Four – no, thirteen, I automatically correct myself, remembering that our numbers have swelled by one this year. We are thirteen now, with the addition of Annie. A traditionally unlucky number – and maybe Annie was unlucky to survive the Games. She certainly seems to think so. But my mind keeps replaying the feel of her soft fingers dancing across my chest, and a selfish part of me can't help feeling lucky to have met Anna-Marie Cresta.

Mags seats everyone, placing Annie beside me in the habitual way we always sit when it is just the three of us at the table, but Annie refuses to look at me, and I feel inexplicably guilty. I joke with the other victors, talking to old Branson about his old dog, chatting with the morphling-addicted Caroline as best I can when she isn't attempting to paint my face with the gravy, and watching everyone's reactions to Annie, who shakes hands tentatively before leaping out of her seat to help Mags dish out the food.

Annie smiles hesitantly when Branson compliments her hairpin, and a few minutes later, good-natured Shaina's small daughter is climbing into Annie's lap and playing with her hair. Ewan, a crotchety middle-aged man who dislikes everyone on principal, tells Annie she has a "sweet smile" when she dishes a heaping spoonful of yams onto his plate, and I can't help noticing that Collins, a dark-haired, dark-eyed victor a few years older than me who has an annoying habit of touching his impeccably-groomed goatee every few minutes, as if to make sure it is still there, is openly admiring Annie in a way that seriously tempts me to stab my fork in his eyes. Caroline snatches at Annie's emerald hair ribbon, and Annie takes it off and gives it to her, causing the older woman's eyes to light up with childlike joy. I am floored. In less than five minutes, and without saying a single word, Annie has completely won over every single person in the room.

When Annie passes me with a bowl of hot seaweed rolls, her eyes nervously flit to me, then away. I reach out, playfully snatching three of the rolls, grinning mischievously at her as I proceed to juggle the bread, tossing the rolls high in the air and catching them again in an attempt to get a reaction out of her (or maybe, I think with a twinge of something horribly like shame, just trying to get her to notice me). To my utter surprise, she beams at me, her face breaking into that unforgettable smile. And then she giggles.

Startled by the sound of her own voice, Annie claps both hands over her mouth, dropping the glass bowl. It shatters on the tile, and she jumps back, covering her ears with her hands.

I hastily push my chair back and run to her. So do half of the other people at the table. She looks shocked but physically alright. I've almost convinced her to take her hands off her ears when stupid Collins volunteers to walk her home, gesturing towards the victor house that is supposed to be hers. Annie pales slightly and darts out the door before anyone can stop her. Mags and I look at each other and immediately chase after her.

For such a small girl, Annie sure runs fast. When we catch up with her, the other victors trailing after us, she is standing nervously on the doorstep of her own house, staring at the door as though it will attack her. Before I have the chance to explain to her that no one wants her to go in that house, before I can say anything at all, Collins strides up and knocks on the door. The loud music and party noises coming from inside die down slightly, and I am attempting to fill the other, extremely perplexed victors in on Annie's living situation when her father opens the door.

He is clearly intoxicated, and when he sees Annie, he makes a face of pure disgust. "Whattaya want, girl?" he slurs.

Annie shrinks away from him. "She wants to go to sleep," Collins speaks for her. "So get outta the way, Cresta, and send your friends home."

"I'll do what I want," her father argues. "It's my house."

"Like hell it is." I push past him and barge in. The other victors follow, dragging Annie along with them, and I realize what they are trying to do. With one of us, her dad and brother won't bother to listen, especially if the protests are coming from the womanizing Finnick Odair, who treats girls only slightly better than they treat Annie. But when confronted by twelve angry victors, they won't have much of a choice in the matter.

I am still arguing with her father when Annie creeps timidly towards the hall. Her brother lurches out, an empty beer bottle in each of his hands. His bleary eyes narrow when he spots Annie, and before I can do anything, he lashes out, slapping her across the face so hard that she stumbles back, banging against a table and falling to the ground. "Stupid bitch," he swears, kicking her viciously in the stomach.

I am across the room before he can raise his foot a second time, hammering into him with my fists in a blind fury. Somewhere beyond the roaring in my ears, I vaguely hear voices shouting, but I ignore them. It takes four of the stronger victors, plus a couple of Michael's half-drunk friends, to haul me off him. When they do, I see that his right eye is swollen shut, and his bleeding, crooked nose appears to be broken. I'm sure I don't look any better.

"Not…going to help," Mags mutters, pressing her handkerchief against a gash on my cheek. I say nothing.

"What's this all 'bout?" Annie's dad asks as his drinking buddies drag Michael away and push him into a chair.

"What do you think it's about?" I spit back at him, wrenching away from Mags to go to Annie's side. She is conscious, but refuses to uncurl from the little ball she has pulled herself into, and her hands are clutching at her injured stomach. There is a nasty red mark across her pretty face. The sight of it makes me feel sick.

Collins, Ewan, and old Branson elaborate on how Annie owns the house by virtue of winning the Hunger Games, and how they will bring the matter to the mayor and the Peacekeepers if Mr. Cresta refuses to yield the home up to his daughter.

I don't bother to participate in their discussion, instead kneeling beside Annie and rubbing her back. I manage to get her to sit up, but when I reach out to touch the welt on her face, she flinches away. "God, Annie," I murmur. "This is the end of this, mermaid. No more, I swear it." She stares up at me, her eyes wide and full of trust, as though she truly believes that I can make them stop abusing her. Which I can't – but I sure as hell can keep her away from them.

I remember the bruises on her throat and skin when I found her in the Home's woodshed and abruptly realize that she must have tried to come here first, only to be attacked and chased off by the family that has never bothered to look out for her. "Why didn't you tell me they were the ones hurting you, mermaid?"

" 'Cuz she's just a crazy slut who can't tell anyone anythin'," her brother mutters.

I leap up, ready to punch him again, but Mags grabs the collar of my shirt, holding me back.

"Enough, Michael," her father orders, telling his friends to go home before opening a drawer and taking out an official-looking document. "Annie can't live alone," he tells me, handing me the paper. "Doctor's orders. _Capitol_ doctor's orders." I look at the document, and see that it has indeed come from the Capitol. Weeding through the complex legalese, I glean the gist of what it says – that Annie is unstable and officially insane, and as such is a ward of Panem who must reside with a responsible parent or adult guardian over the age of eighteen until such time as a reassessment of her mental condition finds her capable of taking care of herself. I'm severely tempted to rip the paper into a million little pieces. What would the Capitol do if I did?

Branson leans over my shoulder to get a look at the document. "There's nothing in here about her brother, or parties, or having your drunk friends over all the time," Branson argues.

Collins nods. "So Annie can live here, with you. And only you."

This is the stupidest idea anyone's had since the majority of Panem decided to elect Coriolanus Snow as president. Annie's lower lip trembles as she slinks into a corner, and I can tell she thinks the same thing.

Michael starts to complain, asking where he'll live, as though anyone actually gives a damn. "Live…your old house, boy. Your _real_ house," Mags mumbles, glaring at him. The fierceness in her ordinarily kind eyes reminds me, and everyone else in the room, that she too has proven herself capable of killing.

"I suppose Annie could live with you instead, if she wanted," Mr. Cresta tells Michael, shrugging nonchalantly as though he really couldn't care less where his daughter lives, or whether she even has a warm bed to sleep in at night.

"Like hell she could," I interject.

"Tell you what," Collins inserts, looking pleased with himself, "let her choose." This guy is really getting on my nerves. Have I mentioned that already? "She's a grown woman capable of making up her own mind," he continues, his patronizing tone belying his matter-of-fact words. "Aren't you, Annie?"

Everyone turns to look at the distraught girl crumpled on the floor. She nods hesitantly.

"Fine," her brother snarls furiously. "Let her choose. But she chooses like the rest of us. Like the "capable adult" you all claim she is. She's gotta say a name." He smiles evilly at Annie, who backs away slowly, trying to make herself melt into the wall. " 'Cuz Avoxes got no rights, bitch."

Her father gives Michael a grim, complicit smile and nods. "Hear that, girl?" he asks Annie. "You gotta talk, now. Tell us what you want. You wanna live with Michael, or you wanna stay here with me?"

"That's not fair!" I protest, but Mags puts a hand on my arm.

"Wait…see…what happens," she advises.

Annie looks around wildly, her eyes darting from her father, to her brother, to the rest of us. She opens her mouth…and absolutely nothing comes out. Her lips move soundlessly, and her eyes look panicked.

Her dad chuckles dryly. "You gotta choose, girl. If you don't speak up, no one'll know what you want."

"And we'll just hafta figure you don't mind sharin' your house with the both of us," Michael adds, smiling his wicked, thin-lipped smile.

An expression of utter desperation crosses Annie's face, and her mouth works frantically. I can't take this much longer.

"Just say something, idiot," Michael spits at her. "Who do you wanna live with?"

Silence.

And then, so soft I think I've imagined it…

"Finn-Finnick." I whirl around, searching for whoever whispered my name. Michael and Annie's father look furious, and Mags is gazing warmly at Annie, smiling encouragingly. Suddenly, it dawns on me, and I'm pretty sure my mouth drops open.

"Finnick," Annie says again, slightly louder, standing up shakily and grabbing my hand in both of hers, clinging to me as though her life depends on it, her jade eyes pleading, dark with more hurt than I can possibly fathom, more pain than anyone ever deserves, especially not bright, brave, impossibly sweet Annie Cresta. "A-Annie lives with Finnick."


	15. Surprises

**Author's Note: A huge THANK YOU to everyone who is still reading, following, and reviewing this story! I really appreciate all your comments and support. It's great to hear that other people are interested in a more serious, complicated, dark twist on the Annie and Finnick relationship. With that said...these next couple of chapters actually have some hope and sweet moments in them! (I know, what a much-needed change, right?). So enjoy...**

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"Man, am I hungry today." Aiden unwraps a neatly packed sandwich – a sandwich so much neater than Aiden himself will ever be, making it clear that he did not make his lunch – and starts to devour it.

"When aren't you hungry?" Neal retorts, taking out his own lunch – thick slabs of meat and cheese layered one on top of the other, and a thermos of warm soup to wash it down.

The third member of our fishing crew, the redheaded Ryan, shakes his head in half-mock sadness as he pulls out his usual midday meal – a hunk of old bread covered in peanut butter. "The food has got to be the one advantage of not being a single man. Right, Odair?"

I prop my legs up on a carton full of the fish that we caught that morning and open my own rucksack. My stomach is rumbling, because we've been hard at work since four a.m., but I can't exactly say I'm looking forward to the crackers and tin tuna I grabbed on my way out the door. I nod, looking at the two attached men in our group. "You two don't know how good you have it. I mean, seriously, you could be eating this shit-"

But then I stop talking, because what I take out of my sack isn't tuna and crackers. It isn't even shit at all. I'm holding a fresh loaf of seaweed bread in my hands, wrapped in aluminum foil so that it's still warm. Emptying out the bag, I find a container full of hot clam chowder, extra peppery just the way I like it, a selection of sliced fruit, a bottle of water, a canteen of hot chocolate, and a huge tin of fish-shaped chocolate chip cookies, with a note on the lid that reads: "For you and your friends." Way at the bottom of my rucksack, someone has hidden a bag full of raw sugar cubes, along with another note. This one says: "Stay safe. Yours, Annie".

"What's all that, Finnick?" The men crowd around, intrigued by my unusual lunch. Alright, alright – intrigued by the fact that I have some semblance of a lunch at all.

Neal takes the container of cookies and reads the note. "I'm officially establishing myself as your friend. Just so I can eat all these."

"Can you not read now? It says '_share_'," Aiden says.

"Never went to preschool. Never learned how." Neal speaks with his mouth crammed full of Annie's cookies.

Aiden peers at the note in my hand. "Alright, Odair. Spill. Who's Annie?"

I swallow the clam chowder in my mouth. It is exactly what I needed in the middle of a long day of cleaning fish and hauling nets. "Annie Cresta. She's…" I don't know what to say after that. What is Annie, to me? What am I to her? We've never come close to talking about it. I'm pretty sure there's a good reason for that. "She's…Annie."

Wow, Odair. Intelligent. No wonder Johanna says you only think with one brain, and it's not the one in between your ears.

"The Little Mermaid?" Aiden has managed to steal some of the cookies from Neal by now. I doubt I'll even get to try one, at the way these guys are devouring them.

"The victor." I am not really present in this conversation anymore – I keep thinking of Annie as I eat the seaweed bread, relishing the salty, buttery taste of it on my tongue. When did she make all of this? She must have gotten up so early…or maybe she never slept at all. "She's not really a mermaid."

Neal snorts. "Thanks for that, Finnick."

I grin at him. "My pleasure."

"Whatever she is, she's a damn fine cook," Aiden says. I realize that my three friends are all looking jealously at my hot soup and bread.

"Real pretty, too," Ryan adds. "Did you see her in that mermaid dress? All green eyes and curly hair, and that little body all curvy and tight underneath her clothes…"

I glare at him. "Cut it out. Annie's a person, not a cut of beef."

Neal's eyes narrow slightly. Even in grade school, he was always the most perceptive of our group. "She doing alright?" he asks, rather emphatically. I'm grateful for the deliberate change of subject.

I shrug. "Better than before. As well as can be expected, I guess." I take another sip of the soup and chew more bread, slowly, staring out at the rough grey sea. "The arena changed her." The other three nod as though they could possibly begin to understand. I leave the remainder of that thought unsaid. _The arena changes everyone_.

I'm still thinking about Annie's fish-shaped cookies and hidden sugar cubes when I walk in Mags' door sometime after sunset, my boots muddy, my hair sopping from the late-afternoon rainstorm that caught us on our way to shore.

"Finnick! I made lamb stew! And cornbread!"

I start, surprised to hear her voice. Even though Annie has started talking again, I am still half-amazed every time she opens her mouth. "That sounds great, Annie."

She hurries into the kitchen. I take off my rain-soaked jacket and dirty fishing boots before following her. I've always enjoyed being in Mags' cozy kitchen, with its ever-present warmth and promise of a good meal, a cup of tea, a real hug from the woman who is the closest thing to a mother that I have now. With Annie staying here, helping Mags with chores, creating new recipes, and shoving food into me every chance she gets, the kitchen seems even more like home now.

"Catch…anything, son?" Mags asks. She is setting the table, and Annie is slicing bread hot from the oven. After my long day at sea, the simple meal smells heavenly.

"Of course I caught something. I'm Finnick Odair." I dig around in my pocket and make a big show of presenting Mags with the tiniest fish imaginable, a fish too small to even be much use as bait. Annie giggles and covers her mouth with her hand. "Oh, and one for you, too," I say, revealing the enormous sea bass I've been holding behind my back ever since I walked in. When I hand it to Annie, who is laughing freely by now, she staggers under its weight.

I help her set it on the counter. "Just a little fish," I joke. "For my little mermaid."

Mags rolls her eyes. "Prob'ly…bought at market."

"Hey!" I swat her with a napkin, feigning offense. "I worked all day for that, I'll have you know."

"I'll cook it for us tomorrow," Annie says. She smiles as she dishes stew into bowls, and we all settle down to dinner.

The storm rages through the night, and I can tell that it is bothering Annie, even though she doesn't say anything. Mags volunteers to clean up, so I follow Annie to the window, where she perches on the ledge and watches the lightning light up the night.

"You okay?" I ask her after a while.

She nods slightly. "Do you ever wish you could be more like it, Finnick?"

"Huh?" Annie's a lot more philosophical than I am, and she usually has to explain her thought process to me when she goes on these seemingly random tangents. My nonexistent capacity for deep thinking is probably the one thing her and Johanna Mason would agree on.

She gestures outside, at the thunder and lightning and pouring rain. "Powerful. Fierce. Strong. Free. Like the storm."

"I…"

"But you have your boat."

Where on earth is she going with this? "It's not really my boat. It's Neal's."

"It's still a boat."

"What's so special about a boat?" Most people in District Four have access to one, even if they don't own one themselves.

Her answer is as soft as the rain dripping down the paneled glass in front of me. "Freedom."

Annie stops talking about freedom, stops talking in general, really, the closer it gets to the annual Reaping. I convince Mags to stay back in Four with Annie, and Tara, a single-minded woman in her forties who likes to go to the Games anyways, mentors the girl tribute instead. As much as I'm used to Mags having my back during the Games, I'm glad that she's with Annie. They can take care of each other until I get back.

The 71st Hunger Games are uneventful. Twenty-three tributes die, including the two from Four. A Career guy from Two wins by strangling a shy girl who looks almost as tiny and innocent as Annie. I automatically despise him.

I lose both my tributes in the bloodbath, then screw my way through the rest of the Games, winking and grinning and pretending to thoroughly enjoy all the drunken nights out. For some reason, the cheap sex is harder this time, harder than it's ever been before, and after each one-night stand, I wake up with a gaping void in my chest where my heart should be.

I thought I was over this by now. I thought I had accepted my life, my role, the playboy character I had played so well that I could no longer separate the real me from the Finnick that the Capitol created. I don't know what changed things, but I know when they started changing. About a year ago, when a small, strange girl with brilliant ocean eyes curtsied and called me "Mr. Odair."

Annie is on my mind all through the Games. I keep remembering flashes of her Games last year, keep thinking I see her tossing knives against the wall in the conference center, dipping her fingers in the fountain in the garden room, sitting nervously in the kitchen and watching me with those big eyes while I make pancakes. I can't help dwelling on how horrible my days were when she was actually in the Games last year, how she never got the Victory Tour she deserved, how my stupid idea that we pass her off as insane royally fucked up her life. How I'm the only one to blame for whatever real madness seized her in that godforsaken asylum in Two.

The day after the Career from Two wins, Cinna and I are sitting in the corner of a particularly dingy bar, pretending to watch his recap interview on TV and waiting for Haymitch, Johanna, and some of the other dissidents to show up for one of our clandestine rebel meetings.

"So, what do you think?" I ask the stylist (or prep, technically. He was one of Four's preps again this year. Medina went over to One, and we ended up with some bimbo of a stylist who was far more interested in getting me out of my clothes than getting our tributes into them).

Cinna nods and smiles slightly, white teeth gleaming against dark lips. "She'll love it."

I certainly hope so.

Even though she sleeps in Mags' guest bedroom or, on rare occasions, in her own house, Annie seems to want to spend most of her waking hours with me, making it really difficult to sneak away without her noticing. I end up telling her that I'm going fishing a lot more frequently than I actually do, then feel horrible when she wakes up early to leave a homemade lunch on my doorstep every day.

Mags pesters me about my odd behavior, asking why I'm disappearing to the docks before dawn and calling Cinna at all hours, but I just smile. "You'll see," I tell her, refusing to let her enter the covered shed I have rented out on the wharf. I want this to be a surprise.

Cinna shows up right on time, knocking on Annie's door as we are eating breakfast. Her eyes light up when she sees him, and she runs across the room to throw herself in his arms. A hollow pang clutches at my chest.

I leave Annie with Cinna and Mags while I set everything up, wondering exactly how she'll react. She didn't say a word about the date when I came over to her house this morning. I doubt she even remembers.

The other victors and their families (the families of those who have them, anyways) gather at the Victors' Pier at four in the afternoon. I've also invited Aiden, Neal, and Ryan, and my sister and her family, because I want Annie to feel like lots of people care about her, even if they don't know her all that well. Annie's dad shows up, too. Even though he's been almost decent to her since our victor intervention the night when Annie started talking again, I'd been reluctant to invite him. But his affection is so important to Annie, and every time she puts herself down with something along the lines of "Daddy says I'm useless" or "Daddy hates me because I always get in the way," it tears me up inside. I couldn't bring myself to invite Michael, though. I don't think Annie would like it if I got in another fight with him, and I know that I'll have an uncontrollable urge to punch him as soon as I see his smug little face.

I am just finishing hanging the paper lanterns from the canopy that I erected above a long picnic table when Cinna and Mags arrive, each holding one of Annie's arms. They have tied a blindfold around her eyes.

Annie is wearing the blush-colored dress that I bought her, the one with the full skirt made of silky flower petals, and Cinna has styled her hair, pinning it up in the back with the hairclip she only takes off when she gets ready for bed. A few stray curls hang down around her face, framing her delicate features, and the little of her skin I can see looks almost clean. She still won't go near a shower or bath, but lately we've been able to coax her into wiping her face, arms, and legs with a damp washcloth. Baby steps, but steps nonetheless. She has on sophisticated, cream-and-black high heels, which Cinna must have brought for her, and a necklace that I've never seen before, a wrought silver, highly stylized seashell.

I instantly recognize Cinna's work. He must have given her the necklace as a present, and the new shoes, too. I turn away from the trio suddenly, unsure why Cinna's obvious affection for Annie bothers me so damn much. Well, I got Annie a present, too, Cinna. And just you wait until she sees what it is.

"Finnick?" Mags asks. "Ready, son?"

I adjust the small stack of gifts on the table and nod.

"Finn? What's going on? Why can't I see – Oh!" Cinna unties Annie's blindfold, and her turquoise-green eyes shine with delighted surprise as the little crowd shouts out an exuberant "Happy Birthday!"

Mags starts singing, and everyone else joins in. Annie stares around in disbelief, taking in the guests, the presents, the lanterns floating in the sky on invisible fishing wire, the spread of delicacies and finger foods laid out on the table, the enormous, island-shaped cake I ordered for her from Four's nicest bakery, the balloons and confetti and streamers decorating the pier.

"Happy birthday, dear Annie, happy birthday to you!" As the song concludes, everyone claps, then looks at the birthday girl expectantly.

Annie's eyes are glistening. She runs over tome and grabs me around the waist, hugging me tightly. I pat her gently on the back and try to extricate myself from her grasp, because we are in a public place and I don't want people getting the wrong idea, but somehow I end up with a hand on her waist and another on her back, pressing her closer instead. When at last she pulls away and looks up at me, her eyes are swimming, and she is smiling softly. "I've never had a party before," she tells me.

I grin at her, her happiness contagious. "You deserve it, mermaid. You deserve to celebrate."

The party soon moves to the beach, where we all hang out, eating and drinking and talking about nothing of consequence. I introduce Annie to my sister, her husband, and their three girls, and for the rest of the night, my little nieces fight over who gets to sit next to Annie and play with her insanely long hair. They call her Rapunzel and say she looks just like a princess, which makes her smile for a minute, before she frowns. She touches the top of her head, her eyes dark with worry, and I know she's thinking of the moment during her crowning ceremony when she threw off her crown and tossed it towards President Snow. It's one of my favorite Annie moments, personally, but obviously the memory bothers her.

"Come on, mermaid," I say, taking her by the elbow and trying to get her mind back on the celebration at hand. "Wanna roast marshmallows?"

Old Branson has started a bonfire, and someone had the foresight to bring a bag of marshmallows. I hand a couple to Annie, and we roast them on sticks. The fire flickers off her face and reflects in her bright eyes, causing me to forget all about my marshmallow until my littlest niece starts screeching, "Fire! Fire, Uncle Finnick!" I blow out the flaming torch to find what little remains of the sweet delicacy in a charred, gooey mass on the end of my stick. I make a big show of eating it anyways, pretending that it's delicious, and everyone laughs, even Mr. Cresta. Even me.

We sing to Annie again when she blows out her nineteen candles and cuts the cake. I'm pleased that her miraculously (and most likely, momentarily) sober father scoots over to make a place for her beside him during dessert. She doesn't say much, but she seems happy just to be spending time with him, to actually have his attention for once without it involving him yelling or beating her. My nieces are climbing all over Annie still, and she waves to me, wanting me to come and join them, but I smile and shake my head, going over to talk with Cinna and my fishing crew instead. She needs this time alone with her dad.

As the setting sun paints the sky in hues of orange and gold, Ryan opens a few bottles of wine with a flourish. Someone tunes Mags' scratchy old radio to a station that is actually broadcasting music instead of Capitol propaganda. As soon as she hears the soft strains of whatever pop song is playing, Annie's whole face lights up. Mags starts clapping in time to the beat as Annie, full skirts whirling, grabs the hands of my littlest niece and whirls her around and around. My other nieces give delighted shouts and join them, and I watch, captivated, as the strange, shy young woman who has somehow become the most unlikely friend I have ever had spins and twirls, dancing gracefully in time to the music. I just stare at her, because I've never seen anyone look more alive, more joyful, more…beautiful.

And there is no denying it – that's exactly what Annie is, with her swirling skirts, sparkling eyes, rosy skin, full lips. I mean, the sight of Annie dancing is beautiful. Nice to see. Sweet. In a totally platonic way. It's just good to see her so happy and high-spirited, for once. That's all I mean. Of course.

Some of the others start dancing too, quickly catching her infectious enthusiasm. Mags and old Branson do a funny two-step that causes everyone to crack up, my nieces ham it up for the crowd, Caroline dances alone, content, in her own morphling-addled world, Shaina convinces crusty, cantankerous Ewan to join her on the makeshift dance floor, Cinna takes Annie's hand and waltzes her around the pier. She laughs when he dips and spins her dramatically. Goddamn showoff.

I want to show Annie that I can dance, too, but I'm pretty sure the kind of dancing I do isn't suitable for present company. I watch Ryan ask Annie if he can have the next dance. She nods timidly and takes his hands, blushing at something he says to her, then falling quiet, lost in the upbeat music. She twirls away from him, lifting up their joined arms to demonstrate how he should be spinning her, and he clumsily yanks her back. He's a terrible dancer. Makes Ewan look like a prima ballerina or something. It's strange, the way Ryan looks at her, and I don't like it one bit. I've never seen him look at another woman like that. To be honest, I've never seen him look twice at any woman, unless he's drunk and searching for action.

Ryan seems to regret how quickly the song finishes, and awkwardly tries to keep her near to him for another dance, but she waves politely, thanks him, and turns away. Collins instantly snatches her up, his thick hands resting inappropriately low on her small body. Night has completely fallen by now, and the only light is that shed by the lanterns and the blazing bonfire, making it harder to tell exactly what's going on. But even in the near dark, across the pier in close proximity to the wine, I can still see Annie tense up as Collins's right hand slips lower to graze her bottom.

I slam my glass down on the table and go over to them, pushing Collins out of the way forcibly. "Hope you don't mind me cutting in," I say, though quite honestly, I don't particularly care if he minds or not.

"Thank you." Annie sounds relieved.

I smile at her and pull her closer, resting one hand gently on her waist and entwining the other with her own. "Any time." A slow song comes on the radio, and we sway together slowly, barely moving. I feel oddly, unexpectedly light, almost insubstantial, as though I am stuck in a daydream. The littlest details suddenly hold me spellbound – her soft fingers interlaced with mine, her sweet smile as she gazes up at me, the rustling of her dress when I turn her, the warmth emanating from her body when I bring her back into me.

"You know you have the right to slap anyone who pulls that kind of crap with you," I tell her.

She stops moving, gnawing on her lower lip. "Why? So he can just h-hit me back?"

Great. Now I've scared her. She only stutters when she's frightened.

"Shhh. No one's gonna hit you, mermaid. No one's gonna hurt you anymore." Quite of its own volition, my hand reaches out to caress her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut, and she trembles softly.

" 'Cuz you take care of me, huh?" she asks quietly. "And I take care of you?"

"Yeah," I breathe. When did we stop dancing? When did her mouth get so close to mine? Why on earth am I still staring at her glossy lips like some pathetic fool?

"Let's open presents, Annie," I tell her, my hoarse voice unintentionally brusque, as if I am giving her an order. I abruptly let go of her and stride towards the picnic table, breathing heavily for no apparent reason and struggling to calm my rapidly beating heart. What the hell just happened over there?

I feel out of it as Annie opens her gifts. My head seems to be spinning, and my heartbeat refuses to slow. I've only had two glasses of wine (or was it three?), way less than my typical Capitol quota, at any rate, but I wonder if somehow I'm drunk anyways. I can't bring myself to look at Annie's shining eyes when she unwraps each of her presents – a new quilt sewn by Mags, a pack of barrettes and a driftwood comb from my nieces, a collection of notebooks and novels and pens from the other victors, a high-tech music player from Cinna. God – how many things did he buy her? Capitol stylists are obviously very overpaid.

Annie's father doesn't have a gift for her, and tries to shrug it off by directing the group's attention elsewhere. "Whattabout you, Odair? What'd you get my crazy daughter?"

He's starting to slur his words again, and I know he's been in the wine, despite his prior promise to me that he would stay away from liquor for the duration of Annie's party.

"Daddy!" Annie interjects, upset at his comment but trying not to show it. "Finnick already gave me his gift."

What? "I did?"

She nods, gesturing around at the party. "All of this. Right?"

I shake my head. "This isn't your present. This was just your surprise party. 'Cuz we missed your eighteenth." Well, technically, she was in the insane asylum, but I'm not about to mention that. "It's not every day you turn nineteen, you know."

Her dad chuckles mirthlessly. "Right. Now you can't be Reaped, Anna-Marie."

The life instantly drains out of the party. Annie drops the book she was leafing through and clutches frantically at her skirt.

"I'm gonna go get your present," I announce immediately, rushing down the beach and around the corner, knowing Annie could use the distraction right now.

I'm not near enough to shore to see the expression on her face when I sail around the bend in a brand-new ship, but when I bring it up close to the pier and lower the gangplank, she is beaming brighter than any sunrise I've ever seen. I feel my own cheeks stretching as I smile broadly too, unable to do anything else when faced with the full force of that hypnotic, brilliant smile, the smile I feared I would never see again. I walk down the ramp and extend a hand to her. "Come meet your boat."

Annie's eyes widen, and she looks as stunned as if I'd just stabbed her through the chest with my trident. "Annie's…_Annie's_ boat?"

I nod. "Annie's boat. I…" I glance at the ground, suddenly unsure of myself. What if she'd rather have a ship made by professional builders, or a state-of-the-art one from the Capitol? "I built it for you, mermaid."

"You…you made…? Finnick!" She cries out my name, her voice choked, and launches herself into my arms. I nearly fall over, and have to put a hand on the ship's railing to steady both of us. She is shaking as she clings to me, and I realize that she is sobbing into my shirt and shaking her head vehemently back and forth.

"No," I hear her mumble. "No, no, no."

"No what?" I try to hold her at arm's length, wanting to see her face. "You…you don't like it." My heart plummets, and my whole body tenses up.

"I like it! I…oh, Finnick, I love it! But I can't…you built it…it's yours…."

"I built it for you."

"I can't…" Annie is still shaking her head in disbelief as I lead her on board and show her around. The ship is relatively small – one deck with space enough to fish from; one cargo hold; one set of sails; one cozy cabin, furnished with candles and cushions and a warm bed, a desk for Annie to read and write at, and a little bathroom with a combination shower/tub that I'm pretty sure will never be used.

Annie adores it all. I can tell from the way she runs her hands along the ship's polished wood and strokes the sails like they are made of the finest velvet. She laughs when a faint _mew_ sounds and her little orange kitten, which she has named Apricot, emerges from the cargo hold with a giant rat between his teeth. I grin. "This seemed like a good place for him," I explain.

She nods. "Finn…what did you name the boat?"

"I didn't. That's your job."

"Finnick Odair!"

"Yes?" I'm sure I look as confused as I feel; she never calls me by my full name.

"No, that's what I want to name my boat…Finnick Odair!"

I chuckle, amused and inexplicably pleased by her comment. "Ships are girls, Annie. You know that. You can't name her Finnick. Silly." I am careful to never call her crazy, even when I'm teasing her. I poke her in the ribcage, and she giggles and darts away from me, running around her new ship. I undo the rigging and raise the anchor. We can't go far in the dark, but I know Annie will want to take the boat out for a trial run tonight.

"Finn?" She's leaning over the railing now, peering into the black, seemingly bottomless water.

"What?" I come to stand beside her. Not counting Apricot and his rats, we are alone on the ship. Most of the others have gone home already, though I can see Cinna and Mags sitting on the pier, waiting for us.

"Can we name her together?"

I smile. "Alright."

"And..." Annie turns to look at me, and I notice just how red her eyes are. I hate seeing her cry because of me, even if she is crying with happiness, but I can't help feeling a twinge of satisfaction to find that my present touched her so deeply. "…and we can share her? She can be both of our boat?"

"But, it's a gift-"

"Please, Finn. Please. I can't possibly take this beautiful ship from you."

"Alright." I concede, letting her win, knowing from the steely set of her eyes that she won't relent until I give in anyways. "We can share her."

She smiles again, her emerald eyes unbelievably bright even in the starlit darkness, her hair haloed by the full moon, and I have to look away, because I suddenly feel dizzy for no reason at all. The reflections of the stars above us wink and dance in the black waves below, and the salt spray kisses my face. Loose tendrils of Annie's hair wave in the breeze, occasionally drifting out to tickle my jaw. I am surprised and astonished at the comfort I find in these pure, simple sensations. I can't remember the last time I felt so present, so at peace, so alive. Reluctantly, I turn the boat back to shore, knowing that we will get lost if we sail any further away from the coast tonight. I reach out tentatively, covering her hand on the railing with my own. She looks at me. "Happy birthday, mermaid," I whisper.


	16. I Drown in You

**Here it is, ladies and gentlemen (if any gentlemen are actually reading this fic): the long-awaited sort-of fluff scene between everyone's favorite District Four victors. Now, if only Finnick would stop being so damn angsty and realize what's going on...**

**Let me know what you think!  
**

**(Oh, and another story-related note: Is anyone out there an artist who would be interested in drawing a cover for this fic? I'd love to have it illustrated, but my artistic skills never moved beyond stick figures.)  
**

* * *

Annie and I decide to call our ship _Moira_, after Annie's mother. We spend most of our time together on the little boat, fishing and playing board games, looking at the ocean or laying on our backs on the deck and watching the clouds drift by overhead.

The next time I go to the Capitol, Cinna alerts me to the beginnings of rumors about Annie's sleeping arrangements, even though she is always at Mags' house at night, and I am usually in my own home (and only occasionally on the couch in Mags' living room). I know Annie needs to move into her own home for the sake of appearances, though, and after much coaxing, Mags and I finally manage to convince her to do so. Her brother leaves as soon as he sees us approaching her Victor's house, Annie toting the one small suitcase half-full of what meager possessions she owns, but she's far too kindhearted to kick out her dad, even though I know he belittles her and puts her down every chance he gets.

Her house is directly across the street from me, and I soon notice that she never seems to sleep. She is always at the boat before me in the mornings, mending the sails or polishing the floor, and she keeps every single light in her house on all through the night. Sometimes, I'm sure I hear her screaming in her sleep, but whenever I ask her about it the next day, she just ignores me, or says that she's fine, in the most unconvincing tones I've ever heard. And when I remind her to tell me if her father ever tries to beat her again, she snaps at me. "I can take care of it on my own, Finnick! I'm not helpless."

"I…I know that." I realize that she's embarrassed about how many of her secrets I now know, secrets we skirt around but never directly talk about – her abusive childhood in the Community Home, her drunken father and cruel brother, her dead mother and impoverished upbringing….everything that happened in the asylum. So even though I want to somehow take away all the pain she carries inside her, even though a horrible part of me wants to ask her exactly how she was violated in that insane asylum, if only so I can hate her tormentors more and somehow find a way to help her overcome the suffering I know she keeps locked away inside herself, I hold my tongue and silently vow to force nothing out of her. Because I too know all about keeping secrets.

I wake up late one morning (actually, closer to afternoon) with a pit in my stomach. Someone is knocking on the door. I know it must be Annie, because I forgot to tell her that I have no desire to fish today, so I drag myself out of bed, even though all I really want to do is pull the covers back over my head and hide from this godforsaken day.

"Hey, Annie. " I open the door and let her in, sinking down into a chair at my kitchen table. She sits across from me, taking in my unshaven face, my sweat-prickled chest, my rumpled pajama pants, my messy hair, but she says nothing.

"I'm not going fishing today, Annie," I tell her at last. "I want to be alone, okay?"

"Oh-okay." She jumps up in shock, as though I electrocuted her, and hurries towards eh door. I only catch a glimpse of her confused, crestfallen face, but it is enough to undo me, even today. I follow her, catching her by the wrist before she can leave.

"Annie, wait. I didn't mean…." I run a hand through my hair nervously. I don't ever talk about this, not even to Mags. What the hell does Annie do to make me feel so damn safe around her? "Look, it's the day my mom died, Annie. I just…need to be alone."

"Oh…Finn!" Her eyes well up, and she tentatively reaches out to take my hand, pressing it tightly in her own. "I'm so sorry."

I try to wave it away. "Not your fault. I just…wanted you to know."

"Alright." She nods and lets go of my hand. "I won't bother you. But…let me know if you need anything, okay?"

Her eyes are so sympathetic, so gentle and full of obvious concern, that I find myself nodding in agreement. "Okay."

I spend most of the day holed up inside, not wanting to face the harsh light of the sun. It is nearly dusk when I finally venture out, pulling on my exercise shorts to go for a run on the beach. The guilt, the loss, the self-loathing, the hatred of Snow – it's getting to be too much for me. I need to burn some of it off.

There is a large basket on my doorstep when I go outside. It is full of seaweed muffins, clam chowder, ginger ale, and hot cocoa mix. There is no card, but she knows I don't need one to tell who the gift is from.

Sweat pours down my face and drips onto my chest as I pound my feet against the sand, willing myself to go faster and farther than usual, to drown out the memories of Mom's lifeless body, Dad's stricken face, the single rose that was clasped in her hands when we found her lying motionless on the kitchen floor.

I run and run and run and run, wanting to stop thinking, needing to quit remembering, panting for breath and relishing the sharp, sudden cramp in my side that makes it difficult for me to concentrate on much else. I sprint past the sharp rocks that mark the technical boundary of District Four, not sure where I'm going, only that I need to keep moving. I'm somewhere in the vast, empty no-man's land between Four and Three when I notice just how low the sun is in the vast orange sky and decide to turn back.

It would have been smart to turn back an hour ago, but smart and Finnick Odair have never really been synonymous. The tide is rising rapidly, and the wind is picking up, whipping the waves into a foamy lather. Rain starts to fall, seemingly from nowhere, spattering my face and running down my neck along with the sticky-hot sweat.

When I reach the rocks again, I have to slow my pace to a walk. The beach has entirely vanished underneath rough waves, and the jagged stones are half-buried below the water. I keep slipping on the rocks, twice cutting my knee as I fall. Waves crash into my body, knocking me over, and as I struggle to stand up again, it suddenly dawns on me just how stupid this is. I am alone on an empty beach at high tide, miles away from the closest house, and the few boats I can see are too far away to be of any assistance, even if their occupants knew I needed it. Finnick Odair doesn't usually make a habit of asking for help, but –

Another wave crashes over me, sending me flying. I knock my head against a rock and struggle to swim to the surface, gasping as I tread water. The waves are too strong for me to even stand up now, the rocks are slick, and the rain is pelting down so hard that I can't even see five feet in front of me. I'm a strong swimmer – you have to be, when you're the son of a fisherman, but that means next to nothing against this fierce undertow and the lethal, invisible rocks all around me.

I fight to stay upright, but the waves hit me again, pulling me under. My head slams against the jagged rocks until my ears are ringing, and I can no longer determine up from down, making my attempts to break through to the ocean's surface more than useless. My lungs are burning, water fills my nose and mouth, and spots swim all around me in the murky liquid haze. My last coherent though before the black takes me is how ironic it is that Finnick Odair, victor of the Hunger Games and champion swimmer of District Four, will die at the mercy of the ocean he loves, his head bashed bloody against the rocks by an unforgiving storm.

There is a sudden flash of light and a vision of Annie's sweet, lovely face, the face that I will never see again. Blue-green eyes, the ocean in her gaze. Button nose. Auburn curls down to her waist. Sunlight on alabaster skin. Pale cheeks. Full, impossibly pink lips. Darkness.

A low buzz fills my ears, someone is screaming, and I can't see a thing. I can't even take a breath as something hard hits me in the chest, over and over again. My mouth – there's something covering my mouth. Something soft and yielding. No, someone. Someone's lips. Someone's…kissing me?

Air floods my stinging lungs, and I gasp, realizing that I am not being kissed, but resuscitated. My head throbs. I have no clue how long I was out. Gone. Dead?

It hurts to breathe, but I manage it somehow, and at the first shaky inhalation, the rhythmic punches to my chest stop. With great effort, I force myself to open my eyes.

And immediately lose my breath again.

Annie, shivering and dripping wet, her flimsy dress clinging tightly to her body, hovers above me, her chattering blue lips nearly pressed to mine, her hands clasped together, ready to push against my chest.

"What the hell?"

"F-Finn…?!" she half-shouts, half-cries, falling on top of me and clutching me so tightly that it physically aches when I breathe.

"Ugh," I groan. She jerks up and off of me, her worried face contrite.

"Oh…God, I'm s-sorry, you're h-hurt."

"Just…can't breathe…" I draw in a long, stuttering breath and wince, as if to confirm the fact. "Ow."

"Be c-careful, Finn. Your ribs…maybe b-broken, or s-something."

I stare at her. "You…broke my ribs?"

She looks so distraught that I immediately feel horrible. "D-didn't m-mean to. I had to…to use all my s-strength. You know. H-how they t-teach us, for CPR."

She's right – everyone in District Four knows that in order to properly resuscitate someone in time, before irreparable brain damage begins to set in, you have to literally beat the air into them, forcing their heart to keep pumping blood to the brain. Annie's so small that she undoubtedly had to put all her physical strength into keeping me alive. Keeping my heart beating.

Annie Cresta keeps my heart beating.

Annie Cresta kissed me back to life.

I shake my head, not sure where in Panem these crazed thoughts are coming from. Maybe her CPR didn't entirely succeed, and I do have brain damage after all.

I suck in another merciful breath of crisp, cool air. My right side aches, but not all that painfully. Nothing seems to be broken – she probably just cracked a couple of my ribs. Not that bad, considering everything. I've had way worse in the arena. I've had way worse in the bedroom, to be honest.

"Damn." I sit up slowly, my entire body aching. I feel blood leaking from my skull, and my ears are still ringing. I shake my head, and the ringing subsides, but starts burst in front of my open eyes, and I get so dizzy that I have to put my head in my lap.

"That's good." Gentle fingers begin to massage my temples, and a wet washcloth wipes away the sweat drying on my neck, the blood dripping down my cheek. "S-stay like that until you feel better, F-Finn-Finnick."

Why is Annie stammering? What is she afraid of?

I stare at the well-polished wooden floor visible between my legs. Are we on the _Moira_? How the hell did I get here?

"Are you c-cold? You should sh-shower."

Shower.

Ocean.

Water.

I snap my head up and stare at Annie. She is trembling, kneeling near me as though she fears I may stop breathing again if she lets me too far out of her reach. Her whole body is shaking. Her arms are covered in goosebumps, and her wet hair drips down her back. She is soaking wet.

"You…you pulled me out, didn't you? You went in the water."

She nods once, her face paler than I've ever seen it. "You were going to die!" she chokes out.

"Oh…mermaid…" I reach out and take her hand, squeezing hard. "You're so brave, Annie."

She snorts and stands up suddenly, inexplicably upset. "Yeah. I went in the water. How brave." She starts rifling through the first aid kit that I thankfully put in the ship, pulling out bandages and ointments with a good deal of unneeded vehemence.

"Raise your arms. I need to wrap your chest. That's all we can really do for your r-ribs."

I don't obey. "Annie." I stand up and go over to her, putting my hands on top of hers to stop her from continuing to yank out medicines we both know I don't need. "You're brave, Annie. Very brave. Trust me."

She finally meets my gaze, and I can see how drained all this has left her. She shivers violently, and I run a hand up and down her arm. "You need to get warm, mermaid."

She looks at me sharply. "So do you. You're the one who almost drowned."

I chuckle, nodding in agreement. "Alright. Come on."

She follows me into the bathroom, but shrinks into a corner when I turn the shower on, as hot as it will go. I get in, not taking my shorts off, sighing as the steaming water hits my skin. I hold out a hand to her. "It's okay, Annie. It's just water."

She nods uncertainly, her eyes frightened. And then something seems to fall into place, because she puts her shoulders back and steels herself. "Water can't hurt Annie anymore?"

"That's right."

She nods once again, this time with conviction. Then she crosses the room in two quick steps, takes my outstretched hand, and steps under the hot spray.

We wind up sitting down in the little tub, our legs on top of each other's as the water cascades down, warming us both from head to toe. When Annie finally stops shivering, I take a bar of soap and run it down her arms, her legs, her neck, her face. She closes her eyes. I am careful to be as gentle as I can, a silent affirmation that she is safe here, with me. I squeeze shampoo into my hand and lather it through her hair, then add conditioner and rinse it all off. Her hair is so soft in the shower, and it smells so unbelievably good, like fresh fruit and sunshine and sea salt. I might take a little longer than really necessary to wash her hair. There is something about the act that completely and thoroughly relaxes me.

When at last I finish, she gives me a nervous, guilty look. "I haven't washed it since…since I went into…you know."

I nod. "It's okay. It's all clean now."

She wrinkles her nose. "It was gross. I…I'm dirty and ugly and gross. Like Daddy says."

"No, Annie." I take her by the shoulders and force her to look into my eyes. "Don't say those things. You're not…any of that. You're clean now, okay? You just needed some time to get back into the water again." I touch her shiny wet hair, running my fingers through the soft strands. I pull her into me and bury my face in her silky brown locks. "And your hair is beautiful," I murmur against her neck.

We stay like that until the water begins to cool down. When Annie shivers faintly, I ease myself out of our embrace and shut off the shower.

She looks up at me with those eyes of hers, her arms crossed underneath her chest. I try not to notice how very, very little the filmy fabric of her wet dress leaves to the imagination.

"Finnick?" she asks as I hand her a towel.

"Yeah, mermaid?"

"You…you like it, that I went in the water? That I'm clean?"

I nod. "I'm proud of you, Annie. You were very brave, to do what you did. You're so strong."

But her mind is off on a track of its own. "You will hold me more, now? You'll hold Annie, if she's clean?"

"I…uh…" I can't meet those piercing eyes, can't think about how I just spent the last hour in the shower with Annie Cresta, hugging her close to me, washing her skin and her face and her hair as tenderly as if she was my – but no. She's not. She's…she's _Annie_.

I've never done anything like that with anyone from the Capitol. Never washed anyone's hair gently. Never showered together with clothes _on_, needing nothing but closeness. Never…never held someone like that.

"I'm going to change my clothes," I say abruptly, heading into the cabin where I've stashed some spare clothes for long fishing trips. When I come out, still feeling awkward, I see that Annie has already set bowls of hot soup on the little table, and is busy cutting up a loaf of bread.

She looks at me shyly and pulls her towel closer around her body. "Dinner," she announces. "And then-" The boat heaves forcefully, and we both grab onto the table for support. The storm is getting worse by the minute. "Then I've got to look at your ribs."

When the floor stops undulating, she pushes me into a chair and serves me, heaping my plate with enough bread for four people. She sits across from me, and we both devour the food. I eat all the bread, plus three servings of soup. I guess my near-death experience, coupled with the run I've almost forgotten about and the stress of the morning's memories, made me hungrier than usual. "This soup's amazing," I tell her, slurping the last of it up. "You're a genius."

She frowns and stands up to clear the table. "No," she says matter-of-factly. "I'm crazy."

We've never talked about this before. I stand up too, taking the empty dishes away from her. "No. You're not crazy, Annie. Don't you believe it for a minute."

"But you said-" she starts, stopping suddenly as her body is wracked by shivers.

"Go put warm clothes on, mermaid. You're freezing. Besides, you cooked. So I'll wash everything up."

She nods mutely. She is almost to the bedroom when I speak again. "Annie?"

She turns to look at me.

"I only said it…Look, all those things…I don't believe any of it. I was just trying…trying to protect you."

Her voice is soft when she replies. "I know."

She ends up wearing her own grey cotton shorts and one of my long T-shirts, because she doesn't have many clothes of her own here that are comfortable enough to sleep in.

And there is no question about it, I think as the raging storm rattles the windows of the dining area where Annie is bandaging my ribcage, we are going to be sleeping here tonight. The wind is so fierce that we couldn't sail even if we wanted to, and I have no desire to try to blindly navigate our way to shore in the middle of this tempestuous moonless night. I've already been battered by rocks a few times too many today.

"…okay, Finnick?"

"Huh?" I obviously wasn't listening. It's sort of hard to, when someone is running their fingers along your bare chest as gently as Annie is. Alright, technically, she's just wrapping up my cracked ribs, but no doctor has ever touched me so tenderly. I actually don't even bother going to the doctor anymore, because the last three I saw were all way too interested in the naked examination portion of the check-up.

"Does that feel okay?" she asks again, tying off the bandages firmly.

"It feels amazing."

Her eyes flicker with an emotion that I can't quite decipher. I yawn and shut my eyes, suddenly completely spent. "You need to rest, Finn."

I nod. And then we both look at each other, and Annie flushes bright red. Because there is only one bed on our ship.

"I'll sleep out here, mermaid," I tell her, deciding to be chivalrous even though my whole body hurts like hell, my ribs feel like they're on fire, and the last thing I want to do tonight is sleep on the cold, hard deck. With the way things have been going today, and considering what day it still is, I'll most likely have nightmares tonight, too. If I actually manage to even get to sleep on the pitching floor, that is. I make a mental note to buy a couch for the _Moira_ the next time I go to the market.

Annie shakes her head. "You can't. You're hurt. You…you almost _died_ today, Finn." The way she says 'died' eats me up inside, and I suddenly realize just how terrified she must have been when she spotted my unconscious body floating in the ocean.

"It's not like I was trying to," I tell her, pulling on the shirt I took off so she could doctor me up. "I got caught out at high tide, and then the storm picked up."

She moves closer to me, tentatively touching my shoulder. "I thought you were g-gone, Finnick. And I would be alone again, for always. Without…without my best friend."

She is looking at the ground shyly and chewing her lower lip. She considers me her best friend? Wow. I…I don't know what to say to that. I've never had a best friend before. Never had many real friends at all, to tell the truth. I'm usually surrounded by a bunch of fangirls and hanger-ons, reporters and paparazzi and people who just want to leech off my popularity.

"Don't worry, mermaid," I assure her. "I won't leave you." She smiles softly. "Except for right now," I add. "'Cuz you're sleeping in the bed."

She shakes her head determinedly. "That's not fair. You-"

"I'll be just fine out here."

"You _won't_. You'll be _cold_." She says it like it's a death sentence, like it will physically hurt her if I am uncomfortable in the slightest. "And then I won't sleep, either. I'll just be up all night worrying about you."

I groan, because unfortunately, I know she's telling the truth. Annie is way too sweet. I'm still not sure why she even cares about me after everything I've done to her, but she treats me like I'm the most precious thing in her life. Part of me wants to know why. A bigger part already knows, but won't accept what it means. Can't accept it.

"Alright. Come on, mermaid." I pull her down the hall, and we both go into the little bedroom. I sit down on the foot of the bed. Annie gulps visibly.

Trying to keep things casual, I tug my shirt off, throw it in the corner, and crawl under the sheets. "Look, the bed's plenty big enough. You sleep on that side, I'll sleep on this side, and we'll both be warm and comfortable."

She just keeps looking at me, her eyes huge.

"I won't touch you, I swear." Does she really think so little of me? "It's okay, Annie. I promise."

She nods. Then she crawls into the other side of the bed, curling up on her side, facing away from me. I pull the blankets over her, because she is still shaking with cold, and shut the light.

"Goodnight, Finn," she whispers in the darkness.

I look at the pitch-black space where I instinctively know Annie is, her head resting on the other pillow. "Goodnight, mermaid." I fall asleep the instant I close my eyes.

I hear someone softly mumbling my name, and I jerk awake abruptly. I immediately freeze, still as a stone, when I register my position.

Annie and I have both moved in our sleep. Now she is lying half on top of me, her head pillowed on my bare chest, our legs tangled together like a knotted rope. Her arms are wrapped around my neck, securing her to me. For my part, I have one hand tangled in her hair, and the other on the small of her back, underneath her shirt, pressing her close to me. I can see the smooth plane of her bare stomach resting on my own, and I swallow hard. Her skin practically radiates warmth, and she is breathing calmly, a gentle smile on her face. My head is angled towards her almost instinctively, my lips dangerously close to the sweet-smelling curve of her neck.

"Finnick," she murmurs again. I caress her hair automatically, and her rhythmic breathing resumes. I'm quite relieved that she is asleep right now, to be honest. Because I have no clue how to react.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I know what I _should_ do. I should extract myself from our…whatever this is…as quickly as I can and spend the rest of the night on the kitchen floor, where I will doubtless be tormented by the scratchy deck and the nightmares that I've somehow managed to evade in Annie's arms.

Annie's arms. So warm, so gentle, so soft. So safe.

I know I should go. I know I'll regret it in the morning. I know Annie would be mortified if she actually awoke to find us like this.

But I can't bring myself to leave.

So I scoot closer and hug her to me, relishing the feel of her little body, snug and secure in my embrace. I stroke her forehead, then quite unexpectedly find myself leaning down to press a soft kiss against the rosy skin of her cheek. She sighs dreamily, and I pull her even tighter against me. I am smiling serenely as I drift off to sleep once more.


	17. Lost and Found

**Author's Note: I know I haven't been posting to this story lately...and trust me, I miss it as much as you all do! I've been very busy working, and I just got a screenwriting contract with a small production company in LA, so I've been working on the screenplay a lot (which is rather exciting). However, I just want to assure all my readers that I have NOT forgotten about this story, nor do I intend to leave anyone hanging. There will be a very conclusive ending to this story eventually, and you will all know when the story has ended. (As in, this chapter is not the ending. In any way. There is a lot more Finnick/Annie angst yet to come!).**

**That being said, I want to thank all my wonderful reviewers yet again. I get so excited to see that people are interested and invested in this story, and I love reading all your comments! I'm especially glad that people seem to think Annie and Finnick are in character.  
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**In other news, what does everyone think of the guy cast as Finnick? I personally think he'll be able to look the part, but I don't really know much about his acting abilities, besides in Pirates 4. I have always pictured Finnick as a very complex, complicated character (as you probably can tell, by this fic), so I hope that comes across in the next movies.  
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**Once again, so sorry for the delay...but I hope that this extra-long, extra-angsty chapter is worth it! (I also hope that the ending is especially worth it, considering we've all been waiting seventeen chapters for them to get this far...)  
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**Enjoy!  
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I've been in a strange mood lately. Actually, genuinely, authentically unhappy, instead of just apathetic. I'm not sure which is worse.

My self-loathing seems to deepen by the hour. It's gotten to the point where I cringe every time I see myself on TV, in the tabloids, in the mirror. I'm depraved and disgusting and despicable, and even my shrieking Capitol fangirls, who like the thrill of lusting after someone so wanton, realize exactly what a twisted, worthless creature I am. I'm good for a screw, and not much else. Everyone knows it. Everyone but Annie.

Annie.

I can't get her out of my head lately, no matter how hard I try. And believe me, I try pretty damn hard. But even when I'm in the Capitol – no, especially when I'm in the Capitol – I can't stop worrying about her, wondering what she's doing, hoping she's okay, wishing I could talk to her. I keep reminding myself that she's my friend, that friends care about each other and are concerned about each other and miss each other, but something about it still disturbs me. Probably just because having a real friend is so outside the realm of my experience that I'm not sure how to feel now that I have one.

When I snap at Mags for the third time in as many hours, frustrated by her slow, garbled speech, she gives me a piercing look and asks what's _really_ bothering me.

I shrug. "Nothing. Nothing, Mags. Sorry."

"Finnick Odair, don't you dare lie to me-"

And then Annie comes in, all cold and shivering from the rain that has started to sprinkle outside, her nose bright red, her hair curling up around her face, water dripping down her cheeks. "Look, Finn!" She hands me something – a large, polished shell, polished to perfection, on which she has painted a brilliant watercolor image of the sun setting over our beach. There are two small black figures walking down the sand, one a woman with long hair and a dress, the other clearly male, dressed in shorts and a wife beater. "I made it for you," she tells me.

I rub my thumb over the shell's shiny surface. "Is this…us?" I ask her, my voice a lot lower than I mean for it to be.

She shakes her head. "It's you, see?" She points to the male figure. "'Cuz that's how your hair looks, all standing up like that. And that's your girlfriend."

I'm sure I must look as stricken as I feel. Mags makes a funny, surprised sound behind us.

"I don't have a girlfriend, Annie."

"Mmm-hmm," she insists. "You know. The girls on TV. The ones you…you know." She blushes, red as a strawberry. "I can't keep track of who you're with all the time," she says, her voice unusually sharp. "It tends to change on a daily basis."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She doesn't back down at the anger in my voice, doesn't even flinch. "Nothing, Finn. Never mind. It's just a stupid picture."

"You're right. It is stupid." Why am I so upset? Why can't I get a hold of myself?

"Yeah?" Her tone is challenging.

"Yeah." I shoot her an intimidating glare, daring her, though to do what, I am not quite sure.

"Fine, then!" She grabs the shell and furiously throws it against the wall, where it shatters into pieces. "Just forget about it." She whirls away, and a few seconds later, I hear my front door slam behind her.

I glance at Mags, who is giving me an odd look. "What the hell was that about?" I ask, rolling my eyes at Annie's childish behavior, as though it didn't affect me at all.

"Don't…know, son?" Mags questions.

"Should I? I'm not the one throwing temper tantrums." I go to gather up the pieces of the painted shell – it really was quite beautiful, and she obviously spent a long time making it. I'm starting to get a pang in my chest as I remember how Annie destroyed the creation she'd worked so hard on all morning. I pick up the segment that shows the shadowy couple on the beach. There is now a huge crack separating the pair, forking off to pierce the sky, the sun, the water, the girl's chest.

"Goddamn it!" I throw the piece down again, and it breaks cleanly in two, severing the image of me and the nameless woman.

Mags is still watching me. "Maybe should…make list of why…why so upset. Figure out what's bothering you," she suggests as she leaves the room.

I love how it's always _my_ fault. Even when Annie's the one acting ridiculous.

But late that night, I find myself heeding Mags' advice anyways, deciding that anything's got to be better than another night spent staring sleeplessly into the darkness. Besides, as much as I hate to admit it, the old lady's usually right about things.

So I go to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of hot chocolate with a generous shot of brandy mixed in, and take out a pen and a piece of paper.

At the top of the first page, I scrawl: _List of Things Bothering Finnick_.

And then I start to write:

Annie always hugs me when she sees me, even though we see each other all the time.

Annie doesn't knock when she comes over anymore.

That night on the boat with Annie.

That we've never talked about that night on the boat with Annie.

That part of me really wants to talk about that night on the boat with Annie.

Having to tell Annie when I am going to the Capitol, and seeing the stark pain in her eyes every single time.

How Cinna and Haymitch always ask me about Annie when we meet in the Capitol, like I'm her caretaker or her boyfri or something.

Annie's cheeks got all flushed and rosy when we shared a bottle of wine on our boat, and I was seriously tempted to reach out and touch her face for no reason at all.

Annie and I have a boat. Together.

The way Annie dances with my little nieces, so joyful and lively and full of a childlike enthusiasm that I could never hope to feel.

Annie never asks me what I do in the Capitol. _Ever_.

The eyes of my Capitol patrons are full of greed and lust. Annie's are gentle and sparkle like the calmest waters I've ever known.

When those gentle eyes become suspicious and accusing, like she knows more about my sordid double life than she lets on.

Annie is 19.

Annie calls me "Finn."

I have spare clothes in drawers at Annie's house, and I found one of her dresses in my bathroom yesterday.

The women in Four give Annie dirty looks whenever she goes to the market with me.

Annie can always tell when I'm upset, before I say a word.

Annie saved my life.

I hear Annie screaming at night, but in the mornings, she always pretends to be fine.

Sometimes, she screams for me.

The last time I made out with Johanna, I felt like puking afterwards.

Someone took a picture. It was in all the magazines, and Annie must have seen it, but she didn't say anything about it at all.

Annie is so incredibly sweet and innocent.

I'm definitely not.

I scan my list, reading it over and over again, searching for the root of my problems. Finally, it dawns on me. The common denominator, what all the items on my list share, the thing bothering me the most…it's _Annie_.

She comes over early the next morning, dressed to go fishing. She doesn't knock. She tries to give me a hug, the way she always does, but I sidestep her. She looks hurt.

"Annie, I don't want to fish with you," I tell her abruptly, knowing there is no easy way to say what needs to be said.

"O-oh." Her face falls. But then her eyes brighten again. "It's bad fishing weather, huh? Want to do a puzzle instead?"

I shake my head, running my hands through my hair so it is standing on end, much like my nerves. "I don't want to hang out with you today, Annie," I say, as quickly as possible.

"Oh. Is…is everything okay, Finn? Did…someone else d-die?" I know she's remembering the anniversary of my mother's death, when I told her I needed time alone, to grieve.

"No, Annie. It's not that. I just don't want to."

"Oh." I expect her to cry, or at least look upset. Part of me wants her to break down in tears, just so I can comfort her one last time. Just so I have an excuse to stay near her a little bit longer.

But she only nods, her face set in blank stone, her body stiff and unexpressive. She looks at me for a moment, tilting her head in that way that is uniquely Annie, then turns and walks away, not even bothering to shut my door behind her.

She comes over again the next day, but this time, she knocks. She pushes a basket of seaweed bread into my hands when I open the door.

"I'm sorry." I try not to notice how tired she looks, how red her eyes are.

"For what?"

"For…wh-whatever I did. To make you m-mad at me."

I let out an exasperated huff. Why can't she get it through her head and leave me alone? "Annie, I'm not mad at you. I just don't think we should spend time together anymore."

"Oh."

"It's not normal. It's not…not healthy, for me."

"Oh." She turns away rigidly. I think I'm going to be sick.

"Annie?"

"Yes?" She spins back around immediately, trying rather unsuccessfully to hide the hope in her voice.

"Here." I hand her the basket. It's not right for me to lead her on, to take advantage of her friendship when I know I can't return it anymore. "I don't want your bread."

"Right." She grabs the basket and walks away. I watch her go down to the ocean and fling the whole thing into the water. Damn it. Damn it all.

Annie stops coming over after that. Stops going out on the boat, stops eating dinner at Mags' place, stops hanging out with the other victors, at least when I'm around. She even stops cleaning my house – and I pretend not to notice the rather drastic difference.

One evening, I enter Mags' house to find the old woman hanging strings of shells at the entrance to her kitchen. I immediately recognize Annie's handiwork – I have enough of those shell curtains in my own home. I know she's been here, and recently. I'm glad she left before I came over. Aren't I? Yes, of course I am. The relief of nearly avoiding disaster must be why I feel like vomiting. Again.

Mags notices me looking at the seashells. She shakes her head sadly. "You really are…idiot, aren't you, son?"

"Um…" Thanks a lot, Mags. What happened to the mothering woman who made me tea and soup on cold days?

Mags just keeps shaking her head. "Hope…know what doing, Finnick. What…giving up."

"Don't pretend to know everything, Mags," I snarl at her. "You don't know half of it."

"Of course." She nods, almost tragically, and doesn't say another word on the subject.

One day, my fishing crew and I are walking home when I notice Annie on the beach. Every muscle in my body tenses as we draw nearer to her, but I try to keep calm, to act like nothing is out of the ordinary. Maybe my friends won't notice her. Maybe they won't remember how eagerly I ditched them to fish with Annie as soon as she had her own ship.

"Hey, isn't that Annie Cresta?" Aiden asks.

Because I am Finnick Odair, and I have absolutely no luck at all.

"What happened with the two of you, man?" Neal continues. "I sure miss that girl's cookies."

"Nothing happened," I say shortly. "She's just another victor."

Ryan gives me an odd look. Then he waves to her. "Hi, Annie."

She looks up, dropping the seaweed in her hands and paling when she sees me. "H-hi, Ryan. Good afternoon, Finn!" Her voice comes out unusually high, and her smile twitches edgily.

"Good afternoon, Finn," my pales mimic, chuckling and elbowing me in the ribs.

Aiden raises an eyebrow at me. "Just another victor, huh, _Finn_?" he teases.

I glare at him. Then I glare at Annie. "My name's Finnick, Cresta."

She gnaws her lower lip so hard I'm afraid she might bite straight through it. "Yes, Mr. Odair." She turns away from our group, walking off down the beach towards her home.

Ryan gives me a decidedly dirty look.

"What?" I ask.

"You're a real jerk sometimes, you know that?"

I grin charmingly. "Sure do. And the ladies love it."

"She doesn't seem to." He gestures towards Annie.

Aiden laughs. "I wouldn't really call Annie Cresta a lady. Did you see the way she smiled? That girl is completely off her rocker."

Neal chuckles.

"Annie's not crazy." Ryan and I both say it at the exact same time. I look at him, suddenly unsure. Why is he defending Annie, when that's always been my job? Why does he even care?

He strides off down the beach, following Annie.

"Hey, man, where you goin'?" Neal asks.

"Asking Annie if she wants to have some o' these fish for dinner."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," I tell him. Having Annie over for a fish fry sort of undermines my whole "don't spend time with her" plan.

"And I don't remember saying you were invited," Ryan tells me tersely.

I watch, dumbfounded, as he approaches Annie, watch her look at the sand and chew on her lip and blush as he talks to her. Finally, she nods, and he grins broadly. She returns his grin with a tentative half-smile, and the two continue down on the beach together.

I walk home in a daze, forgetting my fish by the pier, forgetting my friends on the beach. What the hell just happened? Did Ryan really just ask Annie out? Did Annie really just say yes? Did she not remember I was there on the beach, too? Did the last year and a half, all the time I spent coaching her through the Games, getting her out of the asylum, fighting her brother for her, throwing her a birthday party, building her a goddamn boat, mean absolutely nothing to her? I take out a bottle of whiskey and down a fourth of it in one long gulp. I fucked Seneca Crane for her, for God's sake.

_She never knew_, a slightly sober voice inside my head reminds me. _And she _did_ care._

I know it's the truth. Annie cared about me, much as I refused to admit it to myself back when I still had her affection. She cared more than any other girl I've ever known. She looked past my flaws, she saw me in my weakest moments and never turned away, she accepted me for who I was…she absolutely adored me. And then I hurt her, and broke her trust, and sent her away.

I take another long drink straight from the bottle, determined to drown out any rational remnant of my sobriety. I don't want to think anymore tonight. I especially don't want to think about Annie at Ryan's house, roasting fish with him and laughing at his lame jokes, smiling sweetly up at him as he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close…

I do think about Annie and Ryan, though, much as I don't want to. I think about them until I pass out on my kitchen floor, the empty bottle crashing to the ground somewhere in the darkness beside me.

This time, no one comes to help me to my bed, no soft hands massage the headache from my throbbing temples, no shy tribute brings me ginger ale and food. I wake up the next afternoon in a puddle of my own drying vomit, stagger to the bathroom, take a shower, and collapse, wet and naked, on top of my bed.

I don't know how long I sleep, but I do know it isn't long enough. Forever wouldn't be long enough, at this point. It is nearly noon on one day or another (they're all basically the same, aren't they, when it comes right down to it?) when I finally roll out of bed. I stumble downstairs, bleary-eyed, glad that my headache has at least subsided slightly, and go into the kitchen to get a much-needed glass of water.

"What's this, the trademark Finnick Odair reception?"

I spin around, startled by Johanna's snort of amusement, and find her sitting at the table, wearing a shiny green cocktail dress with a high slit up one side, her hair and makeup impeccable, her mouth smirking as usual.

"What're you doing here?" I manage, completely taken by surprise. I guzzle my water, not bothering to feign embarrassment at my nakedness. It's not like it's anything Johanna hasn't seen before, anyways.

"Most of the victors are here," she informs me, chuckling dryly. "For the wedding, remember?"

My over-exhausted, whiskey-saturated brain dimly recalls that District Four victor Seamus Connery, a soft-spoken man in his early forties, is getting married to his longtime sweetheart, a fishmonger's daughter who teaches at the local school, at the end of the month. Apparently, it's the end of the month already. "Uh-huh."

Johanna grins predatorily. "So, is all of this for me?" She gestures at my naked body. "Or do you greet all your visitors this way?"

I give her a sloppy smile. "Just you, Jo."

She glares at me, knowing full well that I know exactly how much she hates that nickname. "You are such an asshole."

"I've heard." There must be something in my tone that betrays me, because she gives me a penetrating look.

"Alright, Odair, what's up?"

I shrug. "No more than usual."

"Right. Then explain why you're so anxious to get out of the Capitol every time you come in."

"Everyone wants to-"

She doesn't let me continue. "And why you spend more time closeted away with Haymitch and that Capitol stylist than with me. Oh, and why you never bother to so much as give me a call anymore when you're here, why you clearly haven't been eating or taking care of yourself at all, why you look like a hungover pretty boy right now-"

"Johanna, I _am_ a hungover pretty boy," I tell her.

"Something's going on," she insists. At least she's looking at my face, for the most part. I can't really blame her for glancing down once in a while. My, er, male parts _are_ rather impressive. And hanging out rather obviously.

"Yes," I counter. "A wedding. So I'd better get dressed for it. They'd call a national emergency if the Capitol didn't get to see Finnick Odair there." I go upstairs to find some clothes, leaving Johanna in my kitchen.

She's still there when I come down dressed in a tailored black suit with a black shirt, casually unbuttoned at the top, and a green tie the exact color of my eyes. I've washed and combed my hair, gelling it slightly so the ends stick up haphazardly, and I've shaved my face, too. I don't know if the Capitol audience particularly prefers me clean-shaven, but I know Annie does. Not that I care what Annie thinks. Not that I chose the green tie with the hopes that it would draw her attention to the eyes that my Capitol lovers have been willing to spill their deepest secrets for. Not that I am slightly nervous, knowing that Annie will be required to attend the wedding and smile for the cameras like a happy little victor. I can be in the same room as her and act natural. No problem. It's not as though she's an ex-lover or anything.

"I think I liked the other look better," Johanna smirks when I come downstairs.

"Thanks. But I don't want to cause _too _much of a sensation." God, couldn't she just give me a compliment for once? I mean, it's not every day that I dress so formally. Or so decently. If Annie were here, she'd probably go all shy and quiet and start stammering about my fancy clothes, or reach out and straighten my tie, or –

But Annie's not here, I remind myself sternly. She's probably on her way to Seamus' stupid wedding already, with fucking Ryan escorting her, as though he is remotely worthy of so much as looking at her.

"Hey, Johanna? You got a date to this thing?"

Johanna shakes her head.

"Come on." I hold out my arm to her. She smiles almost warmly as she takes it. We stop at Mags' house to pick up my other date. When I tell her this, Mags gives me a toothless smile, and I know I am somewhat forgiven for being such a douchebag lately.

I make a classic Finnick Odair entrance, with one beautiful woman on each arm, and tell the obnoxious photographer who jokes about Mags' age that he can go fuck himself.

The wedding is held in a covered pavilion outside. District Four marriages usually take place in the open, but the gloomy clouds overhead are threatening to spill over, so they obviously had to come up with a backup plan. Seamus stands at the altar, wringing his hands like a nervous teenager on a first date as he waits for his bride.

He's one of the lucky ones – the Hunger Games audience fell in love with his tale of romantic woe, and everyone in the Capitol has been eagerly awaiting his marriage. His story was everything they just eat up in the Capitol – a childhood sweetheart forbidden to date him by her overbearing father, who had designs to increase his family's social standing by marrying her off to the mayor's son. Seamus, the son of a hook-maker, trained his ass off and volunteered for the Games at the age of eighteen, reasoning that if he came home a victor, his Rose's father couldn't possibly object to their union on the basis of Seamus' social status. But he came home to a bitter disappointment – Rose's dad had already forced her to marry the mayor's son, just to spite poor Seamus. The unhappy pair spent the next twenty-odd years pining after each other (and, if the rumors down in the fish market were true, doing a little more than that. Truth be told, rose's two sons do bear a striking resemblance to Seamus Connery. Not that I blame her. I'm the last one with the right to judge.). Rose moved out of the mayor's mansion about six months ago, practically beating down her father's door, a nasty bruise on her face. She screamed at her dad, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, asking if this was what he wanted for her. The mayor's son was – well, is, I suppose – one of Four's most notorious alcoholics, and he tends to get violent when he's angry. I'm pretty sure he's one of Annie's dad's buddies. Suffice it to say, Rose's father couldn't very well insist that she stay with someone like that, at least not if he ever wanted to be accepted in public again. Most of the district, and all of the victors, were thrilled to hear that Rose had filed for divorce. The day the papers went through, she and Seamus announced their long-awaited engagement.

I'm happy for them. Honestly, I am. At least someone gets to live the happily-ever-after they promise we'll all win after achieving a Hunger Games victory.

"Seen…An-nie?" Mags asks me as I pull out her seat and help her into it. I shake my head, and look around the crowded pavilion for the twelfth time since we've arrived. It's not like I'm looking specifically for her, or anything. I'm just…seeing who's here.

Haymitch gives me an inebriated wave from across the covered seating area, and I nod back in greeting.

"Damn," Collins says from behind me, whistling low under his breath. "Get a load of Cinna's date."

I roll my eyes, not particularly caring who the stylist is currently with, but turn to look anyways, because every male in the vicinity (with the minor exceptions of Seamus and old Branson) is openly gaping at the woman.

And for good reason. Her form-fitting red gown stands out dramatically in this sea of blacks, blues, and greens, clinging to her lithe body just enough to hint at her soft curves. The dress is strapless yet conservative in the front, her exposed collarbone highlighted by a glimmering diamond choker, but when she turns around in a swirl of gently sparkling floor-length skirts, I can't help staring along with everyone else. The dress is backless save for a few loose strands of shimmering diamonds strung across her elegantly exposed back, and the scarlet material dips low on her waist, hugging her small hips and accentuating her lower body in a way that makes my own lower body ache painfully. The woman spins around again, in tall, satiny heels that emphasize the seductive curvature of her legs. Her slender fingers, encased in elbow-length black gloves, push a loose curl back into her sophisticated up-do, and she smiles widely at Cinna, her blue-green eyes expressive and shining below her dangerously dark mascara and eye shadow.

I am instantly motionless, my mind blank, my body simultaneously frozen and on fire, because I know that smile. It is the smile that plagues my days and haunts my nights, the smile that tore my world apart and put it back together, the smile I live for, the smile that causes me to die a little more each day I go without it…the smile I would willingly kill for.

"Annie?"

"God, Odair, can't even remember the name of the girl you're with tonight?" Johanna asks snarkily. And then she follows my gaze to the woman in the red evening gown across the aisle. "Wow. Doesn't look so crazy all dolled up like that, huh?"

The wedding march starts playing, and we all have to take our seats, which is probably a good thing, since I am about to grab Cinna by his neatly starched collar and punch the living daylights out of him. He has no right to bring her here looking like that. No right at all. Doesn't he know that her picture will be all over the television within the hour? Is he purposely _trying_ to make the Capitol men want her? And who does he think he is, anyways, to hold her arm like that and make her laugh, to help her sit down as though he owns her, to whisper in her ear and –

"Finnick." A single word from Mags reminds me to maintain my composure, because if the cameras are on Annie, they are certainly on me as well. I glance at my lap to find that I have torn my program to shreds. I force myself to grin throughout the ceremony, winking at the reporters and smirking during Rose and Seamus' heartfelt vows, as though the whole concept of marriage is a big joke to me. And it is a joke, to the Finnick Odair that the Capitol knows and loves. It used to be a cruel joke to the real me, too – not because I didn't necessarily want it, but because I knew I could never have it. After all, what self-respecting woman would really want to marry a whore?

Now, though, the thought of marriage is more like a spear stabbing straight through the heart I used to be sure I didn't have. It rips me up inside, leaving me open and bloody and raw.

Even when I manage to tear my eyes away from Annie long enough to look at the bride and groom whose love we are celebrating today, I still see my mermaid, dressed in a gorgeous gown of purest white, her long curls pinned up under a flowing veil, tears in her eyes and a blinding smile on her face.

"I hereby pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

I watch behind a haze of buzzing red energy as someone – Cinna, Ryan, Collins, some guy who's not me – gently lifts the veil and presses his lips against hers, a silver fishing net covering the pair, joining them forever as one inseparable unit, and I know I can't deny it any longer.

I care for Annie Cresta.

I care for her a hell of a lot more than I should.

And there is absolutely nothing I can do to change that.

I'm relieved when the ceremony finally ends. Seamus doesn't want to let Rose out of his arms, not even for photographs, and the two share a chair as the other victors toast their happiness. Eventually, people start moving around, talking and hitting up the buffet, drinking and dancing to the music of Seamus' three brothers' fiddles.

"Come on, Odair, dance with me." I let Johanna pull me out on the dance floor, and I hold her to me, closer than strictly necessary, rubbing my body up against hers like the sex-crazed playboy the Capitol expects to see on TV, purposely dancing as provocatively as I can. I glance around to see if Annie is watching. When my eyes catch her unreadable ones, she immediately looks away.

Johanna and I dance for a while, until a slow song comes on, and I allow a male victor from Seven to cut in so that I can dance with Mags.

The old woman beams when I ask her to dance, and we sway together, barely moving, while the fiddlers play in the background. I spot Cinna talking quietly to a group of victors in the corner, but I can't find Annie anywhere.

Mags notices my searching eyes, and when the song ends, she squeezes my hands and stands on her tiptoes to give me a kiss on the cheek. "Should go…sort things out. Talk to her, son," she tells me. I don't have to ask who she is talking about.

I wander through the groups of guests, wondering why I can't seem to locate the only person here in a bright red gown. You'd think she would stand out.

Finally, I approach the last person I have any desire to speak to right now. What if they are together – I mean, officially _together_? What if she's given up on me? What if I'm too late?

"Hey, Cinna –" I begin, unsure what I'm planning to say. My hands twitch, and I have to hold them behind my back to make sure I don't hit him reflexively.

"She's not here," he tells me immediately.

"Uh-what?"

"She got upset. Wouldn't tell me why. She said she needed to get some air."

"I-oh."

"I think she went down to the beach."

Thunder shakes the pavilion and the rain that has been threatening to fall all day starts pouring down. The canopy was a smart move on Seamus' part. "In this weather?"

Cinna shrugs. "She likes the water." The stylist's lips are pursed and his gold-lined eyes are narrow, as though he is struggling not to tell me something he desperately wants to say. "What the _hell_ did you do to her, Odair?" he finally spits out.

I don't know what to say. "I…"

"She's barely said a word all day. She's thinner than Lydia Frill when she's on one of her liquid diets. And you should've seen the scratches all over her skin. She had to wear gloves halfway up her arms because they're covered in these goddamn _scars_ –"

"Fuck you." I shove Cinna backwards, hard, knocking him into a tray of sandwiches on the table. I don't want to hear anymore. I can't.

I storm away, pushing people aside in my anger. And then I am outside, running down the beach, oblivious to the rain pelting my face and soaking my suit. The waves crash high and white-flecked against the beleaguered shore, as fierce and unpredictable as they were the day I nearly drowned. The day Annie faced her biggest fear to save my worthless life. Fog is pouring in, so thick that I can no longer see the marriage pavilion just a short distance behind me.

I nearly fall on top of the pair of black heels before I notice them, and when I bend down to pick one shoe up, the waves swell and sweep the other one out to sea. My pant legs are soaked, but I keep running, holding Annie's shoe in my hand. Where is she?

I yell her name, but it is lost in the roar of the wind, the hammering of the rain, the banging of the sea against the sand.

I trip over some rocks half-buried in the surf, catching myself with my hands and tearing my palms open. I welcome the pain, push myself up, force my body to keep moving.

And then I see a small red figure up ahead, crumpled on the shore, huddling amongst the rocks. "Annie!" I cry again, racing towards her.

She doesn't hear me. When I come closer, I see that she is sitting in the sand, her knees pulled up to her chest, her whole body shivering, her clothes dripping wet. She is pulling at her hair viciously, yanking at her dress, pummeling the sand with her fists. Her long black gloves are gone, and her arms are bleeding profusely. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face streaked with water. Tears and rain, rain and tears.

"Annie?" I approach her slowly, not wanting to scare her. She looks out at the raging sea, then at me.

No, not at me – _through_ me. Her wild eyes are empty, and I know that whatever it is she is seeing, it's certainly not me. I realize that she is clutching a sharp shard of shell in her fingers and talking to herself, her voice oddly monotonous. Her words make no sense at all.

Blood and tridents, headless bodies and bodiless heads, mutts and Gamemakers and endless floods all spill out of her mouth like the roiling water that nearly took her life in the arena.

"Never," she mutters. "Never going to – no, don't want, please, just let me…but Cinna says – Cinna _lied_! He won't – he never – he h-hates Annie…"

"Cinna doesn't hate you, Annie." Where did she get that idea? The stylist is obviously head-over-heels for her.

"Not good, not pretty, not sane. Not from the C-Capitol. Not normal for him. Not healthy for him. Tells her to go away. Hates her bread. Hates her shells. _Hates_ stupid Annie." I suck in my breath. She's not talking about Cinna at all. She's talking about _me_.

She picks up a handful of sand and hurls it out into the sea. "Should've died. Should be dead. Should be _dead_!" She gets this scary smile on her face, and clenches the shell tighter in her hand, dragging it violently down her arm. Blood spills out of the deep cut to mingle with the blood already flowing from the other incisions she has made.

She grins even wider, but it's not the familiar smile I so adore. She looks manic, possessed, crazed…she looks utterly insane. "Dead and gone and no more Annie, and it will all be quiet, so nice and quiet…" She keeps smiling as she cuts herself, driving the shell deeper into her upper arm.

"Annie, stop it!" My voice is full of terror. I leap forward, grabbing her wrists, prying the shard of shell away. It cuts my fingers as we struggle – for an undersized girl experiencing…whatever sort of breakdown she's going through right now, Annie is unusually strong. She fights like a wildcat, clawing and kicking and biting, but at last I manage to yank the shell away. I toss it into the ocean and hold her writhing body down with one hand. "Stop it right now!"

She yells and thrashes for a while, and then she grows still, collapsing into a heap on the beach as though she is completely drained of energy. She curls in on herself, her body heaving, and I am barely able to make out her gasping sobs over the storm's ever-increasing clamor. "Annie…"

I rub my hands up and down her exposed back in what I hope is a soothing manner, forcing myself to focus only on helping Annie through her trauma, instead of on how silky smooth her skin feels below my calloused fingers. "Shh, Annie, it's okay. It's all gonna be okay."

She shakes her head and murmurs something, her voice muffled by the sand.

"What, mermaid?"

"It's not, never, never again…_Not_ a mermaid. Wanted to be Finnick's…Finnick's mermaid. But Finnick…Finnick!" She sits up suddenly, her huge eyes struggling to focus on me. I know she recognizes me when she shrinks away and starts trembling with even more force than before.

"Annie," I say again, reaching out to brush her wet hair away from her face. She flinches, and I lower my hand. "Annie, I…"

She isn't listening to me. She's looking around the beach, wide-eyed and bewildered. Her eyes flicker to her bare feet, her sopping evening gown, her bloody arms. "Wh-where am I?" she asks at last.

Damn. I've never seen her this lost before. Not since I found her in the asylum. "On the beach, mermaid," I reply.

"It's…it's raining," she states, almost wondrously.

"Yes." I can't think of anything else to say to that.

"My arms…" She holds them out, examining her injuries remotely, as though they are not a part of her. "What happened?"

I'm not sure how to answer. "You cut them, Annie," I say at last. How can she not remember? She must have been in so much pain…

"Annie. Annie Cresta. And you are…Finnick Odair?" She sounds confused.

"Of course, Annie. You…you know who I am, right?"

She nods carefully. "Yes, M-Mr. Odair. Sir."

She remembers. She remembers me getting angry with her for calling me Finn, at any rate. Figures, that all the awful things I've done to her would stick in her brain, and the rest of it would fly right out like it didn't matter at all. Maybe it didn't. What are Finnick Odair's good intentions worth, anyways? All I seem capable of doing is fucking things up. And fucking.

Annie's mind seems to be working along the same lines. "Don't you have something else to be doing?" she asks suddenly, her face set, her eyes hard. "Or someone?"

I think I choke on my own breath. "What the hell, Annie?"

She glares at me. "I'm not as naïve as you think, Mr. Odair." She sneers my name, in much the same way as Johanna does. Except Johanna is never so polite as to call me Mister anything.

"I never said you were naïve, Annie."

"No. You just treated me like I was." She pushes herself to her feet and turns away from me, walking in between the rocks as fast as she can. Considering how worn out and weak she is, it's not all that fast.

"Annie. Please. Listen to me." I catch her by the wrist and whirl her around, so quickly that she almost falls into me. She steadies herself and jumps back, yanking her hand out of my grasp. Her blood is smeared down my fingers when she pulls away.

"I'm done listening to you," she declares angrily. "I've heard quite enough already. And none of it was true."

"I've never lied to you, Annie." I haven't, technically. I haven't told her exactly what I get up to in the Capitol, either; then again, she's never come right out and asked. But I never told her anything that wasn't true.

"You were kind to me. You made me trust you. You made me think that you…that we…you made me feel _special_! The way you looked at me, the way you laughed and smiled, the way you…you h-held me sometimes…" Here, she looks down at the ground, and I know without seeing her cheeks that she is blushing. And then she jerks her head up at me, and her eyes, now bloodshot and streaked with runny mascara, are full of bitter pain. "I should've known, huh? Forget it. It's just naïve little Annie being stupid again."

"Annie!" Desperate to make her listen to me, I reach for her again, succeeding only in grabbing her skirts. She falls to the ground, landing with one leg twisted awkwardly underneath her, and I tumble after her. A rock scratches my face as I fall. "Annie…ugh…" I push myself up so that I am sitting, still holding her dress in my hand, refusing to let her squirm away again. "Annie, you don't understand."

"Of course I don't. Annie Cresta's too crazy to understand anything." She crosses her arms sullenly over her chest, her frozen lips chattering. God, she is beautiful when she's all wet and angry like this.

"What's wrong, Annie? What are you talking about?" I ask, hoping that she'll give me some hint as to what is going on inside that mind of hers.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm having a great time. And I shouldn't keep you from your _date_ any longer. I'm sure she's more than ready for bed by now." She gives me a too-innocent half-smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

I feel like everything in me has suddenly frozen to the bone. "How…how _dare_ you?" I finally manage.

"It's the truth, isn't it?" she spits back.

"You little-" I don't realize that I'm moving towards her until she scrambles backwards, ripping her dress halfway up her thigh in her haste to get away from me.

"What are you gonna do, Odair? Hit me?" She stares at me challengingly, and I immediately lower the hand I had started to raise. My intention was to pull her skirt back together, because she's showing a lot of leg right now. Hitting her was the last thing on my mind.

"No, Annie…no. Never." I can't believe she would even think that of me. "Never." I look at her for another long moment, and she keeps glaring at me, her eyes full of so much pain and betrayal. I get the distinct feeling that there is a lot more going on here than I know. "Annie, Johanna and I are friends…"

"Yeah. Just like all your Capitol _friends_."

I choose to ignore that comment. "Are you…jealous?"

"No." She pointedly turns away from me, looking out at the raging water. I can tell it hurts her to move, because she winces when she drags her crumpled leg out from underneath her. At least I don't have to see all that silky skin below the tear in her dress anymore. Now I get to stare at her bare back. I don't know which is better. I don't know which is worse.

This close to her, I can see the cover-up running off her wet back, exposing the scratches all over her tender skin. Her shoulder blades jut out prominently, too prominently, and I wonder when she last ate a decent meal.

"Annie-"

"Just go back to the wedding, Mr. Odair. Go back to your girl for the night. Leave me alone."

"Annie-"

"Please." It comes out like a plea. "Leave me alone!"

Her whole body is shaking again, and she looks like she's on the verge of another breakdown. I know she wants me to go away, I know she doesn't want me to see her like this, doesn't trust me to handle her mental collapses anymore, but I can't bring myself to leave her. Not like this. She needs me. At least, she used to. And even if she doesn't…I need her. Desperately.

"Did something happen, Annie? At Seamus' wedding?"

"No. It was just great. I enjoy watching other people get married." Something about the hurried, automatic way she says it makes me think she's not entirely telling the truth. "Rose was so beautiful," she continues, her voice far away now. She still isn't looking at me. "So beautiful, in her pretty dress. And he…he l-loves her. So much."

And that's it, isn't it? He loves her. He always has, and he always will. He loves her enough to marry her. And Annie…ignored, neglected, abused Anna-Marie Cresta, has never, ever been loved in her entire life.

"Don't be upset, Annie," I tell her, knowing how pathetic my attempts at making her feel better are, especially considering how horribly I've treated her this past month. "You'll dance at your own wedding, someday."

She looks at me, then, and I can tell from the vacant expression in her eyes that she is slipping dangerously again. "Right," she mutters, more to herself than to me. "Who would ever marry a crazy girl?" And then her eyes roll back in her head, and her face turns white, and she pitches forward into the sand, unconscious.

Oh. Damn. _That's _what she's been thinking all day? Poor, poor Annie.

"Come on, mermaid," I whisper, gathering her up into my arms as gently as I can. She is cold to my touch, too cold, and I can tell from the gushing cuts on her arms and the pallor of her complexion that she's already lost a dangerous amount of blood. "Let's get you home."

I'm scared that she's bleeding too much, and the marriage pavilion is too far away for me to yell for help, especially over the racket of the storm and the fiddle music. I crouch down, resting her comatose body against my legs, and take off my shirt, ripping into strips and wrapping the fabric tightly around Annie's arms to stop the bleeding. I take off my tie, too, and use it to tie Annie's hair back, for no real reason besides my need to see her face. To make sure her eyes are still fluttering, her teeth are still chattering, her lips are still inhaling softly. I refuse to think about what would happen if I lost her now.

I lift her into my arms again and start jogging down the beach, maintaining a slow, even pace so that I don't fall with her. We are both freezing, and I can feel my heart hammering in my chest as my adrenaline and anger subside, allowing the fear I've been holding at bay to take over.

I push it out of my mind by concentrating on what I'm going to say to Annie when she wakes up. I have to apologize, have to explain myself, have to get her to understand…

_I have no clue how I'm feeling_, I imagine myself telling her. _I just know I can't do this without you._ Is that too sappy? Does Annie like sappy?

_You _are_ special to me, Annie. I know you don't believe it, but you are. _And she still won't believe me.

_I'm sorry I pushed you away. I was…I don't know how to be someone's friend. _Trust me, you don't want to be my friend.

_I don't _want_ to be your friend. I want more. _Is that too vague?

_I want you. _Too much?

_I like you, Annie._

"I like you, Annie." I state the words out loud, looking around at the empty beach, half-expecting a hovercraft to emerge and haul her away right then and there, just because I've finally found a woman I actually care about. But all I see is rain and rocks, sea and sand. So I repeat myself, a ridiculous grin spreading across my face as I holler my declaration to the wind. "I really, really, _really_ like you, Annie!"

"Wh-what?"

Shit.

I look down at the young woman I am carrying. She's definitely not unconscious anymore. Her endless eyes are staring up at me, confused and unsure, and her mouth keeps opening and closing, like she has no clue what she is supposed to say. I am suddenly very conscious of the feel of her body in my arms, the warmth of her head pressed against my bare chest.

"I…I like you," I repeat, suddenly nauseous. My stomach seems to be doing somersaults, and I vaguely realize that this must be what it feels like to be nervous.

Annie's eyes, long lashes sprinkled with raindrops, narrow suspiciously. "What?" she asks again.

I set her down, carefully, but keep my hands firmly around her waist, because she can barely stand. She stumbles into me slightly, and I pull her close, captivated by her beauty, her gentleness, her innocence. This girl, standing on the sand in the middle of a rainstorm, her red gown dripping wet and her hair wild around her pale face, is undeniably the most gorgeous creature I have ever laid eyes on.

"I like you, Annie," I say again, my voice low and husky. I bring one hand up to caress the exposed skin of her back, and I feel her tremble.

"I need you." I reach up to touch her face, then wind my fingers through her wavy hair. She tilts her head up, watching me, her huge eyes sparkling and darkening with so many emotions that I can't begin to place them all.

"I…I want…" One hand is on her cheek now, my thumb brushing lightly against her lower lip. She lets out a stuttering little gasp, and her lips part for me. The other hand is still tangled in her hair, pulling her ever closer to me.

"What?" she breathes, still uncertain, her voice barely a whisper.

"This."

I bend my head down, closing the small space between us, pressing my lips to hers.

And I am lost.

Lost in a whirlwind of emotions and desires, conscious of nothing but her sweet, saltwater scent, the silk of her gown against my chest, the softness of her lips…the indescribable, ambrosia taste of her. For a moment, she is still, motionless, hesitant, and then she is kissing me back fiercely, her lips warm and welcoming against my own, her hands coming up to hug me closer, to weave through my hair, to brush gently against my jaw. I don't feel the rain pouring down on us, don't see the ocean or the sea or the wedding party in the distance, don't remember where I am or what I'm supposed to be doing. I have no name, no identity, no purpose apart from the woman in my arms. She crashes over me like the waves, drawing me out to sea, drowning me in the touch of her skin, the taste of her lips, the surprised, pleased little noises she makes as I kiss her. I am breathless. I am undone. I am lost. I am found.

I only break the kiss when my lungs are burning for oxygen, and even then, it takes more effort than anything else I've ever done in my life. I suck lightly on her lower lip to end the kiss, and her eyes flutter open as she takes a long, panting breath. Our faces are still so close together that I can literally taste her sugar-sweet breath against my mouth, but I refuse to back up, refuse to let go of her, refuse to stop looking at her, afraid that if I do, she will disappear, leaving me alone again in this horrible world of patrons and Hunger Games and President Snow.

Her eyes are dancing, more beautiful and deep than I've ever seen them before, shining like a sea of gems, reflecting the silver stars that are twinkling in the sky above us. Her cheeks redden as she watches me, and she lowers her eyes to the ground.

Oh. She's embarrassed. She's shy. She's…so adorable.

I run my fingers down her blushing cheeks, tilting her chin up so she is looking at me. I trace her collarbone, then slide my hands down her sides and over her wounded arms, until I am holding her hands in my own.

She shivers. I'm pretty sure it's not from the cold. I can see myself reflected in her eyes, my face flushed, my chest heaving, my eyes dark and strangely alive, a foolish-looking, completely foreign smile on my face.

"Say something," she murmurs at last. I hate the uncertainty in her beautiful eyes. I hate the trepidation in them even more.

"Wow."

It's all I can manage. And apparently, it's all I need to say. Because Annie smiles brilliantly, runs her fingers through my rain-soaked hair in a way that makes my whole body melt, and stands on her tiptoes to crush her lips down on mine again.

Wow.


End file.
